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MY EARLY DAYS. 



BY WALTER FURGUSON, ESQ. 




boston : 

FROM HALE'S PRESS CONGRESS-STREET. 

1827. 



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TO 

MY NEPHEWS 
ALLAN AND WALTER, 

FOR WHOSE INSTRUCTION IT IS WRITTEN, 
I DEDICATE 

THIS SKETCH. 




MY EARLY DAYS. 



CHAPTER I. 

I have no distinct recollection of the facts and 
feelings of my existence previous to the sixth 
year. Distance has given to the occurrences 
of that period a vague and vapoury remern- 
! brance, like the dimness of a dream. I have a 
faint idea, of faces that smiled upon me which 
I have never seen again, and of a home re- 
sembling not that where I spent my after 
hours ; but of these things I am by no means 
positive. I possess only a painful certainty, of 
a temporary blindness produced by the small- 
pox, and the fatigues of a journey made in my 
mother's arms during a winter storm. 

Allan Ferguson, my father, was a Scotish 
clergyman, a dissenter from the established 
form of his country's faith. Devoted, with 
heart and soul, to the cause in which he had 
engaged, he bade adieu to his native land, for 
the purpose of aiding the faithful few, that, 
amidst danger and privation, caused the seeds 
2 



6 MY EARLY DAYS. 

of the Gospel to rise and ripen on the shores of 
Ireland. He was appointed colleague to an 
old clergyman, who held the congregation of 

B , a large seaport town in the north of 

that country. There he first beheld, and was 
united to, my mother. She was the only 
daughter, though not the only child, of a rich 
merchant, named Maxwell. At the house ot 
her aunt, an amiable and religious woman, she 
became acquainted with my father. Gentle 
affections and similarity of sentiment produced 
between them a feeling of esteem, which gra- 
dually grew into one still more endearing. An 
explanation ensued. After some delay, the 
church joined their hands — their hearts re- 
quired no formal union. The happiness of the 
wedded pair would have been completely 
without alloy, had not old Mr. Maxwell, whose 
love of money and ideas of family consequence 
made him averse to the match, — though he re- 
fused not his assent, withheld his daughter's 
fortune. 

The income of a dissenting clergyman's as- 
sistant was of course very, very limited. My 
father's mode of life was, however, habitually 
simple ; and my mother's, by inclination, no 
less so. The kind relative, who had been the 
means of their meeting, and who did aM she 
could to facilitate their union, insisted on their 
making her house their home, until it pleased 



MY EARLY DAYS. / 

Providence to produce a change in their hum- 
ble fortunes. Among beings of such a cast no 
reserve existed, or could exist. Accordingly, 
the proposal was accepted as frankly as it was 
made The delicate attentions of this estima- 
ble woman — the fond fidelity of a beloved 
companion, ingenious in devising a thousand 
little plans to make him happy — that unre- 
strained freedom of communication which V^an 
only exist among the pure of heart — the calm 
and constant recurrence of religions duties, and 
the total absence of worldly interference, which 
ever taints what it touches, gave to this period 
of his existence a holy charm, which rendered 
it very dear to the memory of my father. To 
make the bond of sweet society still more com- 
plete, my birth took place. I was born on the 
first of August, eleven months after the ra ir- 
riage of my parents. They gave me the name 
of Walter, from my maternal grandfather. My 
mother thought to propitiate his stern temper 
by this device of affection, and made it her re- 
quest. On the birth of a girl, two years after- 
wards, she smilingly insisted that her husband 
should use a like privilege. He thanked her* 
with a playful kiss, and called the infant Mary. 
It was my mother's name ; and he said it was 
the name of all others the dearest to his heart. 
Six years glided by since their wedding-day, 
■and we were still residents at B . The 



J8 MY EARLY DAYS* 

death of a boy, who was taken from us, with- 
out knowing that he left a world of sin and 
sorrow behind him, was the only incident that 
broke in upon our domestic quiet. Considera- 
tions, however, arose which proved that a 
change of temporal situation, however painful 
it might be, was at all events a thing of neces- 
sity. Circumstances detained my father much 
longer than he originally contemplated, under 
the roof of her who had so hospitably received 
him. He deemed it incumbent on him, as a 
Christian and a man, to delay no longer calcu- 
lating on uncertainties, but instantly to seek 
for some place, permanent and independent, 
however limited that independence might 
chance to be. In leaving the generous wo- 
man who had been so instrumental to his hap- 
piness, and the flock over whom he had watch- 
ed for years, he anticipated many a bitter 
pang ; but it was very obvious, to his under- 
standing and his heart, that the improvement 
of his fortunes kept not pace with the growth 
of his children ; and the duty of a parent was 
esteemed by him far too sacred to allow a mo- 
ment's trifling with their future hopes. From 
Mr. Maxwell he had no expectations. Con- 
tinued neglect seemed to shew that he had for- 
gotten his having ever had a daughter. The 
peculiarity of his situation, as colleague to the 
clergyman of B , held out no positive 



MY EARLY DAYS. if 

prospect on which he could rely with certainty. 
He therefore accepted a call from the congre- 
gation of Glen-O, distant above forty miles 
from his present residence. 

After undergoing the regular forms of ordi- 
nation, it was necessary that he should imme- 
diately enter on the duties of his pastoral 
charge. He was therefore obliged to remove 
his little family, although it was now winter. 
We commenced our journey in the middle of 
December, and I have yet a strong recollection 
of the circumstances connected with it. The 
vehicle on which we rode was a rude car, 
intended for agricultural purposes, furnished 
with long cushions, stuffed with straw, placed 
on each side for the ease of those it carried. 
The horse was poor, and his colour of a sickly 
grey. My father acted as driver, occupying one 
side of the car, with my sister, a stout little girl, 
warmly wrapped in the folds of his great-coat; 
while I, who was still suffering from the eff3Cts 
of illness, sat on my mother's knee, encircled 
by her arms- I particularly remember the 
features of a female, advanced in years, who, as 
she folded a large shawl round my mother's 
neck, appeared to be weeping bitterly. As we 
travelled on our way the sun broke through 
the thick clouds at noon. His cheerless beam 
falling on our sorry vehicle, and the wintry 
wastes through which we journeyed, seemed 
2* 



16 MY EARLY DAYS. 

more in mockery of the lorn-looking wander- 
ers, than in sympathy with the desolate aspect 
of the scene around them. Towards evening 
the rain fell in torrents. In spite of the cakes 
my mother gave me, and the sweet songs she 
sung to soothe me, I cried and was dissatisfied. 
At length I fell asleep, and had the good for- 
tune to continue so, until we reached the only 
place where it was possible for us to pass the 
night. Of this I have no remembrance, save 
that there was a blazing fire, around which 
many strange faces were assembled, and that 
in carrying me to bed I was borne up a ladder. 
The next morning saw us again on our way. 
The violence of the rain-fall had given place 
to light misty showers, against which our tra- 
velling dresses formed a sufficient protection. 
Our road lay alternately, through swampy 
tracts of peat-moss, and through drear and 
difficult defiles among the hills. During the 
early part of the day, the various districts of 
the country through which we passed, seemed 
almost destitute of the habitations of man. A 
wreath of smoke, arising from some miserable 
cabin, and a naked thorn, occasionally observ- 
able by the wayside, were the only visible 
traces of human life and vegetation. As the 
day advanced, our path, which had been more 
or less an ascending one from its commence- 
ment, suddenly assumed a contrary course? 



MY EARLY DAYS. 11 

and sloped rapidly downwards. We began to 
perceive marks of cultivation and improve- 
ment. Plantations, through whose leafless 
branches the mountain rivulets, swollen by the 
winter waters, were discernible in the distance, 
occupied the summits of the rising grounds. 
A farm-house, white-washed and neatly thatch- 
ed, now and then peered through the gloom of 
a December twilight. I had closed my eyes, 
and composed myself to rest on my mother's 
bosom, when the motion of the car ceased, and 
I heard my father, with a cheering voice, wel- 
come us to our future home. 

The village of Glen-O, which had in us re- 
ceived an addition to its small community, 
was situated in a most romantic part of the 
north coast, about five miles from the sea. 
Its site bore an exact resemblance to a horse- 
shoe. In the rear were high sloping grounds, 
parcelled out into various fantastic forms, and 
cultivated as gardens. On the right and left, 
rose hills steep and abrupt, crested with forest- 
trees and shrubs. Through these wound a 
rustic road of so rude a construction as to 
bear a very striking similitude to the deserted 
bed of a mountain-torrent. The village looked 
towards the sea. The lands which intervened 
with gentle swellings between it and the beach, 
were managed with considerable skill, and 
possessed the reputation of more than ordinary 



12 MY EARLY DAYS. * 

fertility. By far the greater part of its in- 
habitants, and the more respectable portion of 
the farming classes in its neighbourhood, were 
the descendants of Scotish colonists — either 
soldiers of fortune, who sought a settlement 
with the sword in this distracted country, or 
pious and persecuted men, who fled hither for 
refuge from the troubles of their own. It was 
a favourite point, in the policy of the proprie- 
tors of the Glen-O estate, to promote the in- 
terests and meet the wishes of these people, as 
far as was in any degree compatible with their 
own immediate views of personal advantage. 
In opposition to the character of the native 
Irish, they were a race distinguished by habits 
of sobriety, frugality, and industry — slow to 
promise, but faithful to the letter of their en- 
gagement. Accordingly, their farms were 
leased out on fair and equitable principles ; 
and, on many occasions, their suggestions or 
remonstrances were listened to with an atten- 
tion not usually granted by an Irish landlord 
to his inferior tenantry. The consequences 
resulting from this were, the regular payment 
of the stipulated rent, the improvement of the 
grounds, and the increasing prosperity of the 
inhabitants of Glen-O. 

My father's congregation consisted of about 
a hundred and twenty families, from the village 
and its vicinity. The place of worship a plain 



MY EARLY DAYS. 13 

patriarchal-looking building, was the gift of one 
of the old proprietors to the primitive settlers. 
To this the present landlord had added a plea- 
sant cot, with a few acres of excellent land, free 
of rent, for the use of the resident minister, 
which, with thirty-five pounds a-year, pro- 
mised and paid by the members of his flock, 
(for the dissenting clergy of Ireland were not 
then in government pay,) constituted the sum 
total of all my father's emoluments from his 
new appointment. And for this he thanked 
his God, and proved the sincerity of his grati- 
tude by contentment. 



CHAPTER II. 

Winter, with its wet days and weary nights, 
passed away. Spring, proclaiming the resur- 
rection of nature, came scattering the snow* 
drop and the primrose over his fairy track ; 
and the tide of circumstances continued to 
run smoothly with the pastor of Glen-O and 
his fireside circle. Habits of economy, and 
the kindness of his friends, enabled him to 
stock his little farm to advantage. In converse 
with his Maker, his people, his books, and 
his fields, (for even with things inanimate wis- 
dom can hold communion,) the mornings and 
evenings of his existence passed away, without 
any of that weariness of life which he only 
feels who knows not how to appreciate its bles- 
sings. There was nothing good to which he 
did not attach a proper value. The moonlight, , 
— the sunshine, — the varying seasons, — the 
overflowing cup, — the furnished table, — and 
the healthful flow of life in his temperate 
frame — were to him so many treats from which 
he ever took occasion to inculcate lessons of 
praise and thankfulness. 

Every member of our family was regarded 
by the good people of the country with sincere 



16 MY EARLY DAYS. 

affection. They vied with each other in pay- 
ing us a thousand minute attentions, indicative 
of kindness and good-will. My sister and 
I were great favourites among the honest vil- 
lagers ; and, during our summer rambles, we 
seldom returned home, without receiving a 
regular tribute of fruits and flowers. The 
lightness of heart that sprung from these 
childish enjoyments, — the invigorating influ- 
ence of unrestrained exercise, the genial glow 
of the summer sunbeams, whose presence was 
rendered still more pleasing by our proximity 
to the sea — contributed greatly to strengthen 
my constitution, considerably debilitated by 
the more than ordinary sufferings I experienced 
from the diseases incident to childhood. 
Owing to the weakness which succeeded 
these, I had never been subjected to any reg- 
ular species of education. At a very early 
age, my mother imprinted the Lord's Prayer 
on my memory, which was remarkably suscep- 
tible ; and this, with a few Psalms, constituted 
my entire stock of acquired information. 
I had now, however, reached my sixth birth- 
day, and I was formally placed under the 
direction of my mother, to receive those intro- 
ductory instructions which, imbibed from the 
lips we love, possess far more of softness than 
asperity. 

I can yet fancy that I see my beloved pre- 



MY EARLY DAYS. 17 

ceptress sitting— as many a time she did in the 
calm evenings, on the rustic bench, which my 
father's ingenuity had constructed in front of 
our cott&ge, and which, on that account, was 
doubly dear to her — the rosy-cheeked girl at 
her foot, plucking the tops off the daises that 
grew around her, — the half-smiling, half- 
serious, look of ill-repressed affection which I 
received when, with the arch cunning natural 
to childhood, I wilfully misunderstood my les- 
sons, that I might have the pleasure of hearing 
her repeat them, — my father, at the open win- 
dow, occasionally lifting his eyes from the 
book in which he was reading, — the delighted 
glance of intelligence that passed between 
them when my boyish prattle happened on 
some observation uncommon at my years, and 
the fond kiss that followed that glance ; these 
are among the number of those sacred recol- 
lections on which memory loves to linger to the 
last hour of our being. 

The progress of the young pupil, under a 
teacher so much after his own heart, could not 
be slow. Gratitude, and the desire of exceeding 
my dear parent's expectations, by doing some- 
thing to surprise her, for which I was ever sure 
to be rewarded, caused me, on many occasions, 
to compass things beyond the reach of common 
diligence. During the year, through the whole 
of which I remained under her immediate care, 
3 



IS MY EARLY DAYS. 

I acquired a knowledge of the leading features 
of the Christian religion, was capable of giving 
an outline of the principal events in scripture 
history, and could read distinctly, without the 
awkward habits and vicious pronunciation of 
those educated in country schools. There 
was nothing miraculous in all this. Many 
boys have acquired information more speedily 
than I did. It was my mother's great object 
that I should learn nothing that I did not 
understand. Haste was with her a secondary 
consideration, She was resolved that I should 
not load my memory with a burthen of mere 
terms!, of whose written forms and articulated 
sounds I might form some idea, but whose rel- 
ative and absolute meaning I could neither ex- 
plain nor comprehend. I imagined that there 
was nothing in the world a secret to her who 
taught me all I knew. I was continually 
asking questions, many of them, of course, 
very foolish ones ; but she whom I addressed 
never failed to give me an instructive answer. 

An event took place about this time, which 
every one who takes the trouble of reflecting 
on his boyish days, will readily conceive to 
have excited no ordinary sensations at the pe- 
riod of its occurrence. The son of a neigh- 
bouring farmer made me a present of a pretty 
cage and a beautiful goldfinch. The little 
creature had been long tamed to its wiry 



MY EARLY DAYS. 19 

prison, and, as liberty would have availed it 
little, I thought there was no harm in retaining 
it a captive. This bird sung sweetly, and 
was the delight of my heart. With what 
pride, as its sole proprietor, have I expatiated 
to my sister on the beauty of its red crown 
and golden wings ! Its cage being near the 
window of the apartment where I slept, 
seemed to have been placed there as an anti- 
dote against indolence. My morning dreams 
were regularly broken by the merry notes of 
its sweet natural music. It was my particular 
privilege to give it the daily allowance of hemp- 
seed and water ; for which I was always 
repaid by a grateful chirrup. In return, I 
vowed that none should ever minister to its 
wants but its own dear Walter. 

The hay-making season arrived : I obtained 
permission to play in the meadows for a whole 
day. How delightful ! — I was up with the 
sun. The labourers were just going to their 
work. I had scarcely time to get my straw- 
hat. My spirits were all in a flutter. At this 
moment, Robin, our old good-natured plough- 
man, chanced to catch my eye as he passed 
down the lane, with a pitchfork on his shoulder. 
I could wait no longer. The meadows had 
taken possession of my whole soul, and my 
poor bird was for the first time forgotten. 

I came home, tired and half asleep. All 



20 MY EARLY DAYS. 

the night long I dreamt of nothing but larks, 
and haycocks, and our ploughman Robin. The 
next day my mother, guessing my fatigue, 
would not disturb me. I did not arise till 
noon. I felt hungry, yet I could not eat ; I 
was listless and dissatisfied, yet I knew not 
why. I stole out to the garden, and began to 
read at the foot of a gooseberry-bush. At a 
little distance there was a tall cherry-tree, on 
which a green-linnet commenced singing its 
dull monotonous note. A boy of my acquaint- 
ance possessed one of these birds, and prized 
it highly. I wondered at his fondness. " Ah !" 

thought I, " if he but heard my Cherub." 

At that instant I remembered all. I rushed 
into the house, but death had been there be- 
fore me. 

My unhappy favourite was strangled be- 

Ttween the wires of his cage, making vain at- 

j tempts to escape the starvation caused by my 

/ cruel neglect. I saw for the first time, what it 

/ was to die. He would never more sing his 

merry morning-song, nor flutter his pretty 

plumes, for an unkind master. " What shall 

I do V 9 I cried, " I have killed it ! I have killed 

it !" " You have indeed, Walter," said my 

mother ; " and let this, your first act of injustice, 

and your first feeling of misfortune, warn you 

ever after from sacrificing those you love to 

the selfish pursuit of personal pleasure." 



MY EARLY DAYS, 21 

Her large blue eyes glistened as she spoke ; 
and I recollect the tone and the look, with 
which she pronounced these words, as vividly 
as if the whole had been but an affair of yes- 
terday. 

I did not soon forget the fate of poor Cherub : 
it preyed upon my spirits for many a day. I 
made all the atonement in my power for past 
cruelty ; but, like the world in which I now 
live, I became kind to the injured being at the 
moment when kindness could avail it nothing. 
I dug him a grave beneath the loveliest rose- 
bush in all our garden. I watered the fresh 
turf with my tears ; and, in the purity and sim- 
plicity of childish penitence, when I knelt, as 
was my custom, to morning and evening 
prayer, I breathed his name, and begged to be 
forgiven. 

3* 



CHAPTER III. 

I had been almost a year under my mother's 
instructions. The clergymen, who assisted on 
the last sacramental occasion, expressed them- 
selves highly gratified by my progress. And, 
previous to placing me under the teacher of 
the village, it was settled, that a festival in 
honour of my past improvement, should be 
celebrated on my approaching birth-day. What 
a proud tribute to youthful industry and obe- 
dience ! — I question much whether Sylla, Ma- 
rius, Cassar, Pompey, or any other of the re- 
nowned men of blood, ever enjoyed a greater 
glow of heart in the hour of their triumphs 
than I did, as the day drew near which was to 
bear public testimony to my filial piety, and 
my acquisitions in learning. At all events, I 
am very sure they did not possess half so pure 
a one. The first of August at length arrived. 
All the children of an age similar to my own, 
belonging to the principal members of my fa- 
ther's congregation were invited. The pastor 
of Glen-O, while he was careful in feeding the 
sheep, did not neglect the lambs. He had 
personally initiated the young members of his 



24 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



flock in the first principles of religion ; and he 
was particularly watchful, that those who could 
not receive instructions at home, should be 
constant in their attendance at school. They 
assembled at our house on the morning of the 
great day, — some of them accompanied by 
their parents. 

My father commenced by singing the eighth 
Psalm, in which he was joined by all present. 
After this, he read an appropriate portion of 
Scripture, and prayed with solemnity and fer- 
vour. He then proceeded to give his youth- 
ful audience a correct view of their religious 
duties, founding his observations on that beau- 
tiful chapter of Ecclesiastes, — "Remember now 
thy Creator in the days of thy youth ; while 
the evil days come not, nor the years draw 
nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure 
in them." — He taught us to comprehend the 
nature of our relation to an Almighty Father, 
by illustrations taken from the history of our 
earthly connexions. He exhibited, by fami- 
liar, but forcible examples, the boundlessness 
of that love which a God of unchanging purity 
entertains for a wicked and wandering race ; 
and he caused our young bosoms to beat with 
tender emotions of awe, delight, and gratitude, 
as he dwelt upon the character of that mild and 
matchless Being, who hath said, " Suffer little 
children to come unto me, for of such is the 
kingdom oi heaven." 



MY EARLY DAYS. 35 

After concluding his discourse, he proceeded 
to ask general questions on the different sub- 
jects with which we were supposed to be ac- 
quainted. The answers were as correct as 
could reasonably be expected from our years 
and opportunities. Our examinator professed 
himself perfectly satisfied. The party was now 
arranged in two rows, and I was desired to 
stand in the centre. I took my place in a sort 
of pleasant confusion. My mother stood by 
my side, and addressed the little assembly. 
She stated that, as the guardian of my educa- 
tion up to that hour, she came forward public- 
ly to express her marked approbation of the 
attention with which I had received her in- 
structions, and the industry by which I con- 
verted them to their proper use. " As a son," 
said she, " his conduct has been dutiful and 
affectionate ; and now, that he is about to be 
transferred to an abler teacher, I trust that his 
perseverance in a virtuous career will enable 
that individual to bear a testimony similar to 
mine, when they are parted on some future 
day." She ceased speaking, and, leaving the 
apartment for an instant, returned, bringing 
with her a pocket-bible, bound in morocco and 
elegantly ornamented. — " This is a mother's 
gift, Walter, and few could give you a better." 
— She placed the book in my hand, and, open- 
ing it, desired me to read the words to which 



26 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



she pointed, written on one of the blank-leaves, 
and executed with the pen in the style of print- 
ing. They were as follows : — 



A MOTHERS GIFT. 

Remember, love, who gave thee this, 
When other days shall come ; 

When she, who had thy earliest kiss, 
Sleeps in her narrow home. 

Remember 'twas a mother gave 

The gift to one she'd die to save. 

That mother sought a pledge of love 

The holiest for her son ; 
And from the gifts of God above 

She chose a goodly one. 
She chose, for her beloved boy, 
The source of light, and life, and joy. — 

And bade him keep the gift, — that, whea 
The parting hour would come, 

They might have hope to meet again 
In an eternal home. 

She said his faith in that would be 

Sweet incense to her memory. 

And should the scoffer, in his pride, 
Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 

And bid him cast the pledge aside, 
That he from youth had borne, 

She bade him pause, and ask his breast, 

If he, or she, had loved him best. 

A parent's blessing on her son 

Goes with this holy thing ; 
The love that would retain the one, 

Must to the other cling. 
Remember 'tis no idle toy, 
A mother's gift — Remember, boy J 



vx 



MY EARLY DAYS. 27 

As I concluded reading, a perfect stillness 
reigned through the room. The children, awed 
by the impressive looks of their elders, did not 
move a lip. My father, leaning back in his 
large chair, covered his face with his left hand ; 
his right, resting on his knee, gently pressed 
the long white fingers of my mother. I caught 
her mild glance as she kept gazing steadfastly 
upon me. She drew me towards her with a 
loving smile. My sister Mary was hanging 
by her skirt. She kissed us both tenderly, and, 
joining our little hands, placed them between 
my father's and her own. The good man arose 
slowly from his seat, giving the signal for 
prayer. He offered up the sacrifice of a pure 
spirit at the altar of divine grace. He invoked 
a blessing on the two or three who had met 
together in their Creator's name. He prayed 
that the love which pervaded that humble fa- 
mily might become general amongst men ; that 
the time would soon arrive when unhappy dis- 
tinctions and dissensions should entirely dis- 
appear, and the sons and daughters of Adam 
would assemble in the house of their God as 
the children of one all-mighty and all-merciful 
Parent. The duties of the morning were at an 
end. We now proceeded to join in the amuse- 
ments which had been allotted for our enter- 
tainment. 

My father conversed with the old people : 



28 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



my mother mingled in our sports, assisting in 
the management of the various projects we had 
on foot, and keeping us in a continual flow of 
good humour. We dined at a separate table, 
and our plain repast was conducted with great 
decorum. After dinner, we adjourned to the 
garden, where, elevated on a seat of turf, I 
treated nay young friends to a dessert of newly- 
gathered fruits. The rest of the company col- 
lected around us, to witness our happiness. A 
good-humoured farmer, who played a little on 
the violin, proposed to send for his instrument, 
if the minister would permit us to dance. My 
father cheerfully consented. He saw no harm, 
he said, in youth and innocence taking a 
healthful exercise, to the sound of a lively air. 
For such as we were he thought dancing a 
fitting pastime. He would not, however, make 
it an important branch of education, as was 
the custom in tow r ns and cities. The return 
of the messenger, despatched for the inspiring 
instrument, broke offhis observations. We com- 
menced, like a band of fairy elves, to trip it on 
the green. What was wanted in grace we made 
up in merriment. We laughed and leapt about, 
rudely enough to be sure ; but in our move- 
ments, however wild, there lay no mischief; 
and our mirth, though boisterous, arose not 
mingled with another's pain. Not one of our 
whole troop had ever heard the names of the 



MY EARLY DAYS* 29 

stately minuet, or the luxurious waltz ; but, in 
the innocence of our artless bosoms, there lay 
a moral grace and harmony which are not al- 
ways found in the voluptuous mazes of the 
fashionable dance. The evening waned apace. 
The stars saluted us gaily through the branches 
of the spreading sycamores, and our friends 
rose to depart. I gave the adieu to my com- 
panions with affectionate regret. I continued 
calling good night ! good night ! until their 
figures, one by one, disappeared entirely in the 
distance. The details of this important day 
overpowered me : I retired hastily to bed — 
sleep soon closed my eyes, and voices of other 
spheres, and forms of seraphic beauty, such as 
are only granted to the holy visions of taintless 
infancy, floated around my couch. 
4 



CHAPTER IV. 

I was now fated to become a daily absentee 
from home, from a home that had been to me 
a little paradise. The day arrived on which I 
was to make my first appearance at school. 
My father was writing my name, the year, and 
the day of the month, in a new treatise on 
arithmetic ; my mother was just finishing a 
satchel of green stuff, destined for my use ; 
and, much as I wished to conceal my feelings, 
yet I could not help looking on the prepara- 
tions for my changing destiny with a heavy 
heart. In spite of my endeavours to hide it, 
my agitation was observed. My kind mother 
was in no hurry to finish the satchel. The 
cuckoo-clock, whose voice never appeared im- 
pertinent until then, proclaimed the hour. My 
father, the most punctual of men, stated his 
intention of escorting me immediately. He 
added, in a soothing voice, that, for the pur- 
pose of assisting in the commencement of my 
labours, he would remain with me during the 
remainder of the day. All was ready. In 
addition to my books, I received a store of 
cakes and fruits, granted with no sparing hand. 



32 MY EARLY DAYS. 

Whether my mother had lost her usual skill, 
or was more difficult to please this morning, 
I know not, but she made a great many al- 
terations in my dress, and displayed more soli- 
citude about it than I had ever seen her do 
before. The ribbon, tied under my chin, she 
bound and unbound a dozen times : even at 
the door she detained me, for the purpose of 
adjusting my frill; and little Mary, having 
expressed a desire to walk, she acceded to her 
wishes, and accompanied us until we were dis- 
tant but a few paces from the modest mansion 
sacred to learning and the education of her son. 
The school-house of Glen-O, the only tem- 
ple of Miuerva that existed in the valley, was 
as unobtrusive and primitive a fabric as ever it 
pleased the arts and sciences to pitch upon for 
their residence. In the dashing style of our 
more modern seminaries, it had been conduct- 
ed on the most approved principles during a 
period of thirty years — that length of time 
having elapsed since it was opened under its 
present master, who, in the discharge of his 
delicate and important office, acquitted himself 
to the entire satisfaction of the good people by 
whom he was surrounded. To give a clear 
idea of its situation, it is necessary to state, that 
the minister's house did not, like the village, 
possess a full front view of the country towards 
the sea. The village, when viewed from our 






MY EARLY DAYS. 33 

door, appeared to the right. On* the left were 
the meeting-house, the open-grounds, and the 
slight blue hills that screened the view of 
ocean. Our residence was elevated on a gen- 
tle acclivity, along whose base lay a road in 
good repair, leading to the mill, the school- 
house, my father's chapel, Fort-Maurice the 
family -seat of our landlord, and the extended 
sea-beach. A private path, for the clergyman's 
sole use, ran in the rear of our house, crossing 
a rustic bridge, thrown over the stream that 
supplied the mill, and winding among trees and 
shrubs, until it reached the chapel-grounds and 
our farm-fields, which lay beside them. It there 
terminated. On an extensive level eminence, 
commanding a noble view of a landscape, where 
sublimity and beauty struggled for the mastery, 
you were at once saluted by the simple aca- 
demy of rural instruction, and the unadorned 
temple of village-worship, without porch, or 
pillar, or cupola, or steeple, or aught to increase 
their authority, or extend their influence, save 
the unpretending sincerity of a few devoted 
people who had resolved to " fear God, and 
keep his commandments." 

The gate that opened on these hallowed 
haunts of learning and religion, was supported 
on the massive stems of two old trees of the 
mountain-ash, that grew about six feet asunder. 
It was painted pure white, and, by a particular 
4* 



34 MY EARLY DAYS. 

decree of the elders, its virgin coat was renew- 
ed every spring. The school-house, which 
was to the right as you entered, literally en- 
joyed a green old age. The ivy and the honey- 
suckle, folding their verdant arms around its 
walls, seemed emulous in giving every corner 
of the matronly mansion a share of their ca- 
resses. The interior was divided into two 
apartments : one, large, well-aired, and lighted, 
having the forms, tables, desk, and chair of 
state, usual in a country school-room ; the 
other, small, with a single window, whose dia- 
mond-shaped panes and leaden sash contrived 
to keep, even in the clear days of summer, a 
kind of perpetual twilight, that ever excited 
a visionary awe in the curious stripling, who 
indulged in a presumptuous peep at the secrets 
of this mysterious sanctuary. It contained, 
after all, but little to gratify the inquisitive 
glance of youth. The congregational register, 
the sacramental service, the books and varied 
literary apparatus of the teacher, composed all 
its treasures. Such is, as nearly as I can re- 
collect, the appearance of the spot where the 
sons and daughters of simplicity flocked for 
instruction. I have often reflected on it in 
after days, and I have thought that the pecu- 
liarity of its situation might be construed into 
an emblem of singular beauty. The humble 
tabernacle rising in front of the school-house, — 



MY EARLY DAYS. 35 

the lonely burial-field lying in shadow behind 
its walls — made it appear as if education were 
directing the eye of the young spirit to fix its 
gaze on heaven, while it silently pointed to the 
temple of the Lord, and the mouldering dust 
of slumbering forefathers. 

Never did human figure harmonize more 
completely with a scene in still life, than the 
honest instructor of the children of Glen-O 
with the scene set apart as the sphere of his 
undisputed sovereignty. Master James Flem- 
ing — or, as he was officially designated by all 
the country, the Master — was just the kind of 
man one would wish to meet in such a place. 
The school-house and he seemed formed for 
each other ; both in their physiognomy and in 
their relative situations there lay a strong re- 
semblance. The master's years had left above 
fifty-five notches in time's calendar ; but his 
long grey locks still retained traces of the curls 
of youth, and his cheek yet preserved a warm 
tone of colour, derived from temperate habits, 
good humour, and a sound constitution. He 
left Scotland, when a young man, with the pre- 
decessor of my father. By his own exertions, 
he acquired a considerable share of education. 
His great aim and object were to become a 
clergyman ; but even the very moderate means 
necessary to complete a collegiate course in his 
native country, went far beyond his resources, 



36 MY EARLY DAYS. 

and he was necessitated to rank his early as- 
pirations among the number of those things 
which God in his providence has allotted not 
to be. Having a good voice, with a taste for 
sacred music, he united the duties of teacher 
and precentor ; and thus, in the exercises of 
the Sabbath, his vocation placed him in a 
situation bearing a relation to the sacred office 
for which he had thirsted, similar to that pos- 
sessed by the scene of his temporal labours in 
its local proximity to the house of prayer. 

It was the pride of his heart that, with the 
exception of the time included in an illness of 
three weeks, his place in the church had not 
witnessed his absence for a single day during a 
period of thirty years. There he was — through 
hail and snow, — in storm and sunshine : his 
countenance beaming with an expression of 
honest exultation, as if a seat in the Zion of 
his fathers amply repaid the scholastic labours 
of the bygone week. Many a day, for many 
a year, have I seen him seated at his desk, 
awaiting the coming of my father with rigid 
punctuality. In the memory of the oldest of 
the congregation, his dress on that occasion 
was invariably the same. A slate-coloured 
coat, with a single breast — a vest of black 
cloth, — velveteen breeches, — black stockings 
of a quality in accordance with the season, — a 
round hat, with a small crown and venerable 



MY EARLY DAYS. 37 

brim, — and shoes ornamented with large plated 
buckles. A linen napkin, white as snow, lay 
before him, with which he ever wiped the dim- 
ness from his spectacles ere he commenced 
reading. I have the image of the master at 
this moment before my eyes, with all the ful- 
ness and freshness of reality. I hear his clear 
and unbroken tones, unbroken to the last, rais- 
ing the sacred song, — the mild melody of his 
native hills — that rose wherever the persecuted 
found shelter. The psalmody is at an end ; 
he places the book placidly before him. His 
whole deportment speaks the reverential feel- 
ings of the man who knows what an awful 
thing it is to commune with his Maker. He 
— but imagination carries me too far. The 
form of the master has long since ceased to 
occupy a place upon earth. The hallowed 
scene of his harmless triumphs is profaned and 
desolate. Even the school-house, whose gay 
ivy looked like youth with old age in its arms, 
is now a broken ruin : " The place that once 
knew him knows him no more !" 

His favourite study, I might say amuse- 
ment, was astronomy. By perseverance he 
had attained a considerable knowledge of va- 
rious branches of mathematical science. Hav- 
ing presented an accurate survey of the Glen-O 
estate to the father of its present proprietor, 
the latter, not to be outdone in courtesy, gave 



38 MY EARLY DAYS. 

him in return a pair of globes, and a small tele- 
scope. He was an unmarried man, and these, 
with a few choice books, were to him a wife 
and children. His family were very decorous, 
and they were rewarded with a full share of 
affection. On the clear cold frosty nights, 
when the stars were bright, and the moon 
beautiful, he would gaze on the blue sky till 
the nipping airs of midnight caused him to 
seek his bed, benumbed from his nocturnal 
reveries. Notwithstanding the abstracted and 
unsocial nature of his meditations, he was a 
favourite every where. Without home or 
hearth, he divided his time among such of his 
pupils' parents as were in easy circumstances. 
There was no one more welcome to a seat at 
the farmer's ingle than the master. He was 
never at a loss for an entertaining story or a 
good-humoured jest ; and his presence damped 
no man's merriment. Even the children anti- 
cipated his visits with delight. He had " borne 
his faculties so meek," — had been " so clear in 
his great office," — that the mere cessation from 
his wonted kind familiarity was, to the young 
folks, a grievous punishment. It was a plea- 
sant sight when, on some particular occasion 
of festivity, there arose an affectionate conten- 
tion about what family should have him at 
their fireside — to see the little party, who had 



MY EARLY DAYS. 39 

the good fortune to secure his promise, lead- 
ing him home in triumph. 

Such was Master James Fleming, whose 
warm look of welcome was to me, like wine to 
a drooping spirit, as he received from the 
hands of his minister, the sacred charge of w 
only son. 

V 



CHAPTER V. 

A winter, attended by a train of storms of 
unusual gloom and number, had set in. My 
mother had given birth to a still-born child, and 
remained in a very delicate state, when an 
event occurred which, but for the gracious 
interference of an over-ruling Providence, 
would have plunged us all into the depths of 
affliction. 

A continuance of frosty weather congealed 
the surface of the lakes and rivers. The ice 
was not, however, of any considerable thick- 
ness when the snows began to fall. The face 
of the whole country was soon changed to one 
wide field of stainless white, — and, to a spor- 
tive fancy, it might have appeared that Right- 
eousness and Peace had already met on earth, 
and commenced their holy labours by hiding 
the spots and blemishes of the material w T orld 
under a veil of intense purity. To me, the 
new aspect of external things was delightful. 
I skirmished with the village-boys, built Lap- 
land huts, whose form and materials might 
have vied with the fabled domes of fairy-land, 
and, last not least, enjoyed the substantial com- 
5 



42 MY EARLY DAYS. 

forls of our simple home with a truer relish 
than ever. 

The fall continued at intervals for a number 
of days. The ground was covered in some 
places to the depth of six feet. I could no 
longer go to school, or make any distant ex- 
cursions from our own door. The heights 
were dangerous to traverse, and it was with 
difficulty the roads could be kept open for the 
necessary purposes of country-life. While the 
storm yet continued without any indication of 
change, at an early hour of the morning for so 
bleak a period of the year, my father was sum- 
moned to attend the sick-bed of one of his 
people, who, seized with sudden and violent 
illness, was not expected to remain alive many 
hours. The suffering man had expressed an 
anxious desire for the presence of his minister, 
to sooth the last moments of earthly solicitude; 
and his weeping son, who came as the mes- 
senger, faltered forth a hope, that nothing 
would prevent my father's accompanying him 
without delay. " The hill-track," he said, 
" was well beaten ; little snow had fallen dur- 
ing the night ; they would not ask him to stay 
long ; and he would surely have time to return 
ere the shades of evening fell." 

As the young man spoke, I saw my mother 
turn to the window, her eye fixed anxiously on 
the winter sky, like one who would read what was 






MY EARLY DAYS. 43 

to be hoped, or dreaded, from die face of him 
he feared. The sun was visible, and nothing 
more. A feeble ray, barely betokening his ex- 
istence, betrayed him seeking shelter beneath 
the dun skin of a shapeless mass of vapour, 
as if conscious that he had no business where 
hostile elements were holding their troubled 
councils. The sullen clouds, as they prssed 
and repassed each other continually, seemed 
marshalling themselves for more than usual 
mischief. In short, the whole scene presented 
nothing to tempt the most locomotive being to 
forsake the house for the high way. " It is at 
least nine miles to the Black Forth, Allan," 
said my mother, turning her eyes from the 
cheerless aspect of the world without, and 
fixing them expressively upon her husband. 
My father drew his chair close to her's, as she 
spoke, and addressed her for some minutes in 
a low tone. I could not distinguish the words ; 
but, from his manner, I am sure they were 
kind and persuasive. At the conclusion, she 
appeared to acquiesce in whatever he had 
stated ; something touching the propriety of 
the journey I suppose ; for she arose to make 
little travelling preparations immediately after- 
wards with an air of resignation. 

He departed, giving a positive assurance, 
that he would, if possible, return to dinner. 
It was now past nine o'clock ; and, should he 



44 MY EARLY DAYS. 

not be able to make good his intention, be pro- 
mised, at all events, to be with us without fail 
at four. His horse was steady, and he had 
travelled the road a thousand times. The ear- 
lier part of the day passed pleasantly enough ; 
my mother sewing at the window ; Mary sit- 
ting in her little chair adjusting the drapery of 
her doll ; and I at the table writing, as well 
as the darkness of the day, and my slight 
knowledge of the art, would permit. The 
snow began to fall in thick and heavy flakes 
about noon. I was requested to give up my 
employment, lest straining the nerve in the dim 
light should injure my eyes. I obeyed, As 
my attention was now unoccupied, I observed 
that my mother laid down her work very often, 
gazing on the still fall of the feathery element, 
and occasionally directing a longing melancholy 
eye-glance to the road leading to the Black 
Forth. Dinner time arrived. We waited long 
past our usual hour, but no one came. Mary 
was hungry, and ate with the appetite of a 
healthy child. My mother helped us to every 
thing, taking a little on her plate to please us, 
but evidently eating nothing. I loved her too 
well to be deceived. I saw that she was 
troubled. I stole a look at her face, and ob- 
served that her cheek was still pale, very pale, 
from the touch of illness. After that I could 
not swallow any thing ; my lip quivered, and 
roy heart became full. 



MY EARLY DAYS. 45 

She again resumed her station at the win- 
dow. I seated myself by her side. How 
heavily did the moments roll ! She no longer 
attempted to work. The stuff fell from her 
unconscious hands, and lay at her feet. The 
clock called four. Never were sounds more 
welcome. In five minutes more he will be 
here. But five, ten, fifteen minutes, half an 
hour passed, and my father came not. The 
snow fell as if it were to fall for ever, — awful 
and silent, like the calm that succeeds the hour 
of death. New heaps, of a formidable size, 
were fast accumulating in front of our house. 
I marked my mother sorrowfully watching 
their increase, till her eye no longer seemed to 
note them, as her thoughts wandered in deep 
abstraction. The heavy shades of the rapid 
twilight were growing thicker every moment. 
All without wore that indistinct hue which im- 
agination loves so well to people with fearful 
forms. It was to no purpose that affection con- 
tinued to keep its eye intensely fixed upon the 
desolate waste. The embers were dying on 
the neglected hearth, — the snow continued to 
fall, — the clock again proclaimed the hour, — 
and yet he came not. 

She closed the shutters with a feeling of bit- 
terness. We heard footsteps approaching. 
The door opened, and a man muffled in a great- 
5* 



4D MY EARLY DAYS, 

coat stood before us. It was our old plough- 
man, Robin. " He came," he said, " to ask 
permission, as the night was somewhat wild, to 
go and meet his master. He would just take 
a lantern in his hand, and, with his dog by his 
side, he feared nothing." The permission was 
gladly and gratefully granted. As the good 
old man closed the door behind him, my 
mother gave him a look that was in itself a 
blessing. After his departure, she appeared 
to experience a momentary relief. Fresh turf 
was heaped upon the fire ; it blazed cheerly ; 
and, drawing us close to her side, she once 
more resumed her work. 

An hour-glass that had long lain half-for- 
gotten, on a shelf in the room containing my 
father's books and papers, was placed upon the 
table. I watched the falling sands, wonder- 
ing by what strange contrivance they were 
all caused to change their place within the ap- 
pointed hour. My mother from time to time 
marked their progress as steadfastly as I did. 
It could not have been from the same curious 
motive ; for lam very sure, that one so wise 
as she w T as must have known the secret of its 
formation. I gave a cry as the last remaining 
atoms descended to their brethren. She hasted 
to change the position of the glass. She seem- 
ed struck by sudden pain ; for she pressed her 
fingers strongly to her temples. Her work 



MY EARLY DAYS. 47 

was again forgotten. Her hands, that were 
clasped for a moment, relaxed in their grasp, 
and rested despondingly upon her knees. She 
arose from her seat, and I heard a deep 
sigh. Preparations were made for tea, which, 
from the necessary economy of our humble 
housekeeping, was a meal of rare occurrence. 
But the elements were busy abroad ; and one 
who was both a husband and a father was ex- 
pected home. We thought there was some 
noise without. We ran anxiously to the door. 
It was opened with difficulty. Nothing could 
be seen but the snow, that almost blocked up 
the entrance, drifting in our faces; nothing 
heard but the solitary bark of the distant 
watch-dog complaining in the storm. I re- 
moved the white fringe that had fallen on the 
hair and neck of my dear parent. The damp 
of the night and of illness met and mingled on 
her cold forehead, and she looked like death. 
The sands of the glass again descended, and 
told of another hour past and gone ! " He 
never broke his promise," said my mother ; 
" yet three hours have passed since the ap- 
pointed time, and still he comes not." 

During all this period, there was no word 
of Robin. His protracted stay looked omin- 
ous of evil — of what complexion our fears were 
left to guess. Mary became fretful, as her 
eyes grew heavy* My mother took her in her 



48 MY EARLY DAYS. 

arms, and hummed a low mournful air, until 
she fell asleep. She then glided into an ad- 
joining apartment, and placed her in bed. 
The door was ajar. I saw her kneel down by 
the bedside of her child. I heard the deep 
breathings of her voice, as of one in earnest 
prayer ; and the light, gleaming fitfully on her 
wasted features, shewed that she was weeping. 
I ran and placed myself beside her. I mingled 
my voice with hers. — The tears that fell from 
her blue eyes united with mine, At that in- 
stant we heard a loud knocking. I thought 
my heart bounded through my bosom. The 
door was opened in an instant. — tt is Robin — 
and my father ! — In spite of the snow with 
which he was covered from head to foot, he 
was encircled in my mother's arms. — What 
happiness ! 

It was not until the next morning that we 
heard the details of his journey. The follow- 
ing is, as nearly as I can remember, the story 
as he related it at breakfast : — 

" Though I rode as fast as was possible 
through a narrow snow-track in a mountain- 
road, and though we reached the Black Forth 
some minutes before noon, yet I arrived too 
late to meet the wishes of its dying master. 
His sufferings had terminated an hour before 
I came. I found a house without a head — a 
wife without a husband,— and children without 



MY EARLY DAYS. 49 

a father. I gave the afflicted family all the 
consolation that duty and friendship could de- 
vise for such a trying hour. I put them in re- 
membrance of One, who has promised to be a 
husband to the widow, and a father to the fa- 
therless — of One, who will not forsake his peo- 
ple in six or in seven troubles — of One, who, 
in the dark hour of adversity, sticketh closer 
than a brother. I could not, as a man and a 
Christian, depart in haste from the house of 
mourning, as if death or disease lay in the 
neighbourhood of sorrow. I remained, there- 
fore, as long as was at all consistent with my 
views of returning home. It was past three 
before I left the residence of my departed 
friend. The thick snow-fall gave a double 
dimness to the wintry twilight. The beaten 
track was filling fast, leaving scarce a trace of 
our morning travel. The poor young man 
who came on the melancholy message that 
availed so little, proposed to guide rne on my 
way ; but I could not consent to such a thing. 
It would have been inhuman to have sent a 
young heart forth in the tempest of its feelings, 
to gather a deeper gloom amidst the desolation 
of nature. 

" I moved on very slowly. The fresh masses 
that had fallen since morning kept me con- 
stantly on the look-out for road-marks. Both 
the horse and his rider grew heartily tired of 



50 MY EARLY DAYS. 

plunging through new heaps every moment. 
We absolutely ploughed our way down the 
hills. Had I been five miles on my way be- 
fore daylight was altogether gone, I could 
have managed matters very well. The re- 
mainder of the journey, however difficult, was 
perfectly safe. It grew dismally dark. Above 
two hours elapsed in struggling with the ele- 
ments. My progress during that time was 
little more than four miles, and, to crown all, 
the storm, in place of abating with the lapse of 
time, began to rage with increasing violence 
My feelings at this moment were very painful 
I cast a long look on each side, to see if ther< 
was any light to indicate the abode of man, 
where I might procure a guide through the 
dangerous track I was now traversing. Ere I 
had time to prosecute my inquiry, the horse's 
fore-feet gave way, and I was pitched to a con- 
siderable distance in the snow. The moans of 
the wounded animal told me that I narrowly 
escaped with life. He had fallen through the 
broken arch of a mountain-bridge, from which 
it was impossible to rescue him. With a full 
heart I blessed my God for this great deliver- 
ance. I hasted on as fast as fatigue, the dark- 
ness of the night, and the contending elements, 
would permit. After walking, I may say, 
on all-fours, for nearly three miles, I became 
dreadfully exhausted. Rest was absolutely 



'e 



MY EARLY DAYS. 51 

necessary. I placed the cape of my great-coat 
under my head, folded my arms closely to- 
gether, and lay down in the shelter of a huge 
pile of snow. A seductive sleep began to steal 
upon my senses. Soft visions sported before 
my eyes. In a few hours I would have been 
numbered among the victims of that fatal 
slumber, from which none was ever known to 
waken. The barking of a dog roused my 
torpid spirits. He pulled me by the coat, as 
if conscious of the danger of the situation I 
had chosen. When he saw me fairly on my 
feet, he galloped off; and in a few minutes 
Robin was by my side — thoughts of home 
sprung to my heart — I gained new vigour. — I 
again proceeded on my journey, and you know 
the rest. — Twice in one night did the Father 
of mercy turn his servant's footsteps from the 
dark valley and shadow of death." 

He ceased speaking. My mother's whole 
frame trembled with emotion. She leaned her 
head faintingly upon his shoulder. He kissed 
her wan cheek as tenderly as he had done 
when it shone in its first bloom, when the 
white and the red rose held a divided empire 
over it. My sister was on his knee, and I by 
his side. He folded us closely to his bosom. 
Though he spoke not, his lips moved as in 
speech. — "What ails thee, father?" There 
was no reply. He shunned my childish 



52 MY EARLY DAYS. 

glance of inquisition, inclining his head to- 
wards the window, as if to note the aspect of 
the morning sky. In the heavens there was 
one clear blue spot. It looked like an open- 
ing, through which the parted soul might wing 
its way to bliss. My father's eye was rivetted 
upon it. I noted the expression of his coun- 
tenance well, and I remember it perfectly. I 
did not then understand its meaning; but I 
am no stranger to it now. What heart will 
ask me to explain it ? 



CHAPTER VI. 

The duty of attending school did not prove 
by any means irksome. The master's sway 
bore no resemblance to a reign of terror. The 
spirit of emulation was made the great spur to 
industry, and under its powerful influence 
many of us worked wonders. At the end of 
the first year, my arithmetical progress was 
pronounced respectable. My acquisitions in 
writing and grammar were displayed at learned 
length in an autograph letter to my mother, 
which I delivered into her own hands. It 
detailed my improvement in all its bearings, and 
concluded with a grateful compliment to her 
I who gave the writer his earliest lessons. For 
this, you may be sure, I did not go unre- 
warded. 

About this time an incident occurred, which, 
at the moment, discomposed me not a little. 
Our community had always lived together in 
harmony. I did not understand what was 
meant by harshness or injustice. I was now 
taught to comprehend both. 

Dick Edw T ards was the only boy at school 
with whom none of us cared to associate. 
6 



54 MY EARLY DAYS. 

Though some years older than I, he was ever 
among the lowest in the ranks of competition. 
In addition to this, he had the misfortune to 
be envious and ill-natured. As Dick cut but 
a sorry figure himself, he was extremely 
anxious that others should do the same. If he 
rose from the writing-table, he was sure to do 
it in such a way as to mar his neighbour's copy. 
He was an adept in shaking it slyly with his 
foot ; and, to prove his innocence, was always 
ready to make the first complaint. He would 
blotch your bo6k as if by accident, and make 
a hundred apologies with one side of his face 
while he laughed at you with the other.— 
In short, Dick was a very cunning, trouble- 
some boy. 

It so happened that he possessed a copy of 
Robinson Crusoe, adorned with wood-cuts. I 
had never read the book, but its fame w r as fa- 
miliar to me. The very name was music to a 
boy's ears. In all the village there existed but 
the one copy. Like all the good things of this 
world, its scarcity increased its value. I long- 
ed for it night and day. I did not wish to ask 
a favour of Dick ; but what could I do ? He 
alone possessed the treasure, and Robinson 
Crusoe with wood-cuts was irresistible. 

One evening on our play-gK)und I summon- 
ed up courage sufficient to ask Dick for a read- 
ing of the precious volume. He answered 



i ' 



MY EARLY DAYS. o5 

with a grin, that " he did not get his books 
after that fashion himself." Determined not to 
give up the point, I had recourse to other 
means. I tried if bribes could move his stub- 
born nature. I offered him a top, handsomely 
painted, and ornamented with a large brass nail 
in the centre, for one night's reading of Cru- 
soe. He eyed it wistfully as I displayed the 
beauty of its proportions. I spun it round 
— he could stand it no longer. — " It's a 
bargain," he cried ; and, snatching up my 
pretty plaything, ran off, as I conjectured, for 
the book. I remained a considerable time, 
but we saw no more of him that evening. The 
next day we met together as usual. Dick was 
there also, but seemingly unconscious of his 
engagement. I reminded him of what passed. 
What was my astonishment, when he utterly 
denied his part of the bond. I thought at first 
he jested, but he shewed himself perfectly in 
earnest. He said that I indeed gave him a 
paltry top, but then it was only in payment of 
a great many marbles he good-naturedly lent 
me some months back. I turned to my com- 
panions. — " Friends, was I ever known to 
borrow any playthings 9" — " Never !" was the 
reply from all. " Have you seen me associate 
with Richard Edwards, or hold any communi- 
cation with him, until yesterday < ?" " Never, 
never," was the answer from twenty voices. 



56 MY EARLY DAYS. 

" Did you not all witness the bargain that took 
place between us ?" — " We did ; and it's a 
shame to break it !" they cried unanimously. 
" There," said I, " Dick, you may keep the 
top ; but you're a very wicked boy." He 
turned away with a horse-laugh. His effron- 
tery shocked me ; and, unable any longer to 
command my feelings, I burst into tears. 

My comrades were evidently much hurt at 
this termination of our compact. Some of 
them were well enough inclined to interfere, 
but Edwards was much older than any of 
them. He was also stout and daring, and 
manifestly disposed to stand at bay. When 
some of the boys offered to mediate between 
us, the bully buttoned up his coat, saying, 
that, as I was something less, he would give 
me odds, and fight me for satisfaction. If 
that did not do, he would box any one who 
would take my part. 

At this instant, who should join the scene of 
altercation, but Charlie Williamson, the very 
boy that gave me the unfortunate goldfinch. 
He was a class-fellow of mine — a clever, spir- 
ited, open-hearted lad. " Why so silent, good 
folks W said he, as he observed Edwards 
stalking about in solitary grandeur, and the 
rest whispering with confused looks. The 
cause was soon explained. " And is that all 9" 
inquired Charlie. " That is all 3 " answered 



MY EARLY DAYS. 57 

my companions. He walked up familiarly to 
my faithless foe. " Shew me the foolish 
thing," said he, directing a glance to my wet 
cheeks, " that has cost so much more than it 
is worth." He spoke like one that would not 
be refused. Though not so thick set, he was 
something taller and more active than my op- 
pressor. It was clear thatihe bully was not 
at all inclined to quarrel with Tiim. He search- 
ed one pocket, then another, and at last suc- 
ceeded in placing the disputed toy in Charlie's 
hand. " Wat Ferguson," asked the kind 
youth, " is this your property 9" I answered 
in the affirmative. He took me warmly by 
the hand. — " Will you grant a favour to an old 
friend V — " If you mean yourself, I will." 
" Well, then, I shall keep your top, and you 
shall accept of mine. Though not so tempting 
an exchange, it will prove at least more sub- 
stantial than your late adventure with Robin- 
son Crusoe." Here there was a loud laugh 
from all the party, which did not diminish, as 
my friend proceeded to whip his new toy at 
Edwards' very foot. The boys all thought 
that this was more than he would bear. His 
whole appearance indicated an approaching 
storm. He mattered and growled, and at 
length kicked the top as if out of his way, 
while Williamson whirled it along. " So, ho ! 
— at your old tricks, Dickie," cried Charlie, 
6* 



58 MY EARLY DAYS. 

smiling with mischievous good humour ; " I 
thought for your credit, you did but jest ; 
but now I see that my handsome plaything has 
crossed your pleasant temper. Come, take 
a friend's advice ; there lies the long lane, and 
you can tell who lives at the end of it — so, 
march ! — Nay, no sour looks ; we are met here 
to be merry. Recollect the day you struck 
the beggar-boy. — I hate quarrels ; but you 
know I can walk without my jacket as well as 
any body, if the thing must be." 

There was something conveyed in these 
words that his opponent did not wish to have 
explained. The spirit of contention slunk from 
amongst us, and his sidelong glance, as he 
passed, betrayed an expression, I fear, of a 
darker and deeper colouring than shame. The 
whole band was about to raise a shout of 
triumph, when Charlie interposed, saying, the 
churl was not worth their notice. He then 
proposed some general amusement, in which 
we all joined with double satisfaction, since 
the jarring temper of Edwards was no longer 
among us, to make us the sport of his caprice, 
to control our wishes, and mar our merriment. 

It was a custom of our school, that each boy 
in the writing and arithmetical classes should 
keep a quarterly book, in which a specimen of 
penmanship, and one or two of the more im- 
portant exercises, were copied with all possible 



MY EARLY DAYS. ' 

neatness every week. These books were pub- 
licly exhibited at quarter-day ; and the places 
of honour in the classes for the next three 
months were severally allotted, according to 
the degrees of taste and ability displayed in 
their execution. Various privileges were the 
reward of him whose cleverness and industry 
surpassed all his competitors ; and there was 
no boy possessed of a proper pride, that did not 
exert his powers to their utmost stretch, in or- 
der to attain these honest and enviable distinc- 
tions. A few days after the affair of the top, 
a trial of this kind was to take place, for which 
my class was preparing with particular diligence. 
Though the youngest, both in point of -years 
and standing, I had, through great exertion, ob- 
tained the second place in the last exhibition. 
On the present occasion, I left nothing undone 
that my capacity could effect, in order to gain 
the great point of preeminence above my fel- 
lows. Of all my rivals there was none whose 
genius and application I feared so much, as 
that of my faithful friend and ally, Charlie Wil- 
liamson. 

On the very evening before the day of trial, 
he gave me a glance at his journal ; for nothing 
jealous, or illiberal, had a place in his disposi- 
tion. The moment I saw it, my heart told me 
that, for this time, my hopes were vain. It 
must have cost him a great deal of labour. It 



60 MY EARLY DAYS. 

was so perfectly free from error, so prettily 
ornamented. The writing resembled copper- 
plate. I expressed my admiration with sin- 
cerity and warmth. I did not conceal from 
Charlie that I thought it would prove a losing 
game to me. He smiled incredulously, impu- 
ting my anticipations to boyish diffidence. " To- 
morrow will tell a different tale," said he — and 
so it did. 

That morrow came. I tripped to school 
with calmness and resignation, conscious that 
whether I succeeded or not, I had at all events, 
done my utmost. I took the private path lead- 
ing from our house. Just where it united with 
the common way, the appearance and action 
of a boy, who did not perceive my approach, 
shaded as I was, by the occasional interference 
of the intervening trees, caught my attention. 
There were little pools of water formed in the 
hollows of the uneven road. In one of these 
he w T as splashing with might and main. It ap- 
peared to me a very singular amusement. He 
clearly dreaded detection ; for, on hearing my 
footsteps, he ran off. Quick as he was, how- 
ever, I had too much cause to remember his 
form not to know him instantly. It was my 
amiable friend, Dick Edwards. Full of curi- 
osity, I hasted to the spot he had just quitted. 
I soon discovered the nature of his strange 
employment. A written volume, of which 



MY EARLY DAYS. 61 

scarcely a single page remained legible, lay- 
trampled in the mud. I examined it minutely. 
The little that escaped the malignity of the 
spoiler, convinced me that in the ruined man- 
uscript I beheld the abortive labours of poor 
Charlie. 

I entered the school with a heart as heavy 
as if I had been myself the sufferer. The 
master occupied his chair of judgment. The 
boys were presenting the fruit of their exertions 
for the quarter ; and my friend was looking for 
his journal like one distracted. He met me on 
my entrance. " Have you seen my book, 
Walter °l I must have forgotten it at home." 
I could answer nothing. I pointed mournfully 
to the torn and trampled remnant that I carried 
in my hand. At once he perceived the 
extent of his misfortune. Covering his face, to 
conceal his emotion, he retired to a corner of 
the room. The boys vainly attempted to con- 
sole him. The master sympathizingly in- 
quired into the cause of the sad mischance. 
" It was his custom," he said, " to carry his 
books under his arm, and in the hurry and 
agitation of the morning, it must have fallen 
unperceived." This account was not altogether 
satisfactory ; for a mere fall could never have 
reduced the hapless journal to such a deplora- 
ble state. While the affair remained in doubt, 
Dick Edwards, whose expressions of regret 



C2 MY EARLY DAYS. 

were both loud and long, had drawn a circle 
of hearers around him, whom he appeared to 
address with great earnestness. The frequent 
mention of my name attracted my notice. I 
drew nearer. I distinctly overheard him 
accusing me of the destruction of my friend's 
manuscript! This was too much. It was not 
my intention, from a delicacy resulting from 
our previous quarrel, to have exposed his 
treachery at this time ; but his viie accusation 
fired my bloodi I called the solemn attention 
of the master and the whole school to witness 
my statement, and I denounced the heartless 
boy before them all. I pointed out the place 
where I found the book. Some torn leaves 
still lay upon the spot, and the culprit's shoe 
agreed in all points with the foot-marks imprin- 
ted in the mud. The master heard and saw 
all this with astonishment and grief. He 
called Edwards forward. He expatiated on 
the enormity of his offence, — he talked to him 
as a father would to an erring son, — he endea- 
voured to bring him to a sense of bis folly ; — ■ 
but Dick was hardened beyond hope, and sul- 
lenly persisted in denying it all. His sentence 
was pronounced. His name was formally 
erased from the roll of the school. He was 
compelled to occupy a solitary seat ; and, after 
the duties of the t day terminated, the teacher 
resigned his wayward charge into the hands of 
his parents. 



MY EARLY DAYS. 63 

The examination now went on. I produced 
my specimen ; and it was pronounced the first 
among them all. The judge stated, that I had 
honourably won the highest place of distinc- 
tion in iny class. I requested his attention for 
a moment. I told him that I had seen Charles 
Williamson's journal before it was so cruelly 
destroyed. My conviction at that time was, 
that it was much superior to mine. That con- 
viction remained unchanged. I could not 
then, honestly or conscientiously, accept an 
honour which accident alone had wrested from 
my friend ; therefore craved permission to 
transfer it to him who, I was very confident, 
had best deserved it. The master pulled out 
his white handkerchief, alternately wiped his 
spectacles and his eyes, and, descending from 
his chair, shook me cordially by the hand. — 
My kind-hearted Charlie was proclaimed head 
of his class, amidst the cheers of the whole 
school. The poor boy threw his arms round 
my neck, and sobbed like a child. My father 
joined us ere the hour of dismissal. The 
master drew him aside, and they conversed 
together in low whispers for a long time. 
Their eyes frequently turned upon me ; and 
never did my father's countenance appear more 
luminous with undisguised delight. 

Charlie came home with us to dinner. My 
mother produced a whole treasury of confec- 



64 MY EARLY DAYS. 

tions, and we were as merry as larks for the 
whole of that evening. Many years have 
passed upon me since. Wealth has been at 
my command, — I have taken a peep at all that 
men call pleasure ; and at this moment I can 
lay my hand upon my heart, and safely say, 
that this was one of the happiest days I ever 
had in my life. 



CHAPTER VII. 

As myeducation advanced, learning, unlike 
the many companions we pick up in this 
world, displayed the greater variety of charms 
the more our acquaintance thickened. Every 
care was taken to ground me thoroughly in the 
rudiments of whatever branch of science or art 
I attempted. This gave to my after-acquire- 
ments the appearance of happy discoveries. — 
Elementary information seemed the master-key 
to a repository of wonders. Possessed of it, 
curiosity, the germ of growing intellect, w T alked 
abroad, hungering and thirsting after the no- 
velties of knowledge ; and study was with me 
rather the happy means of allaying a restless 
appetite, than a check imposed upon youthful 
enjoyment by the ascetic hand of scholastic dis- 
cipline. The next quarterly exhibition placed 
me at the head of my class, from which, proud 
eminence, I was never afterwards removed. 
The boys, who might have been able to keep 
within ken of me, were, as they advanced in 
years, broken in their pursuit by the interfer- 
ence of agricultural avocations. My situation 
at length resolved itself into a kind of perpet- 
7 



f 



66 MY EARLY DAYS. 

ual dictatorship, without dread of rival, or hope 
of reward. A word of mine was law in all 
the erudite disputations of our literary com- 
monwealth ; and my fame and authority in- 
creased to such a degree, that it was at last 
doubtful whether even the master himself pos- 
sessed a voice more potential in our little sen- 
ate. Whispers were abroad, that Wat Fergu- 
son need no longer seek the school-house of 
Glen-0 to procure instruction. All this, how- 
ever, excited no jealousy in our worthy 
teacher ; — he was an honest man, — and would, 
in the true Spartan spirit, have rejoiced had 
every one of his pupils proved their superior- 
ity over him. 

There are some who may be disposed to 
mock the seriousness with which I particular- 
ize the facts and impressions of these times. 
Let them do so that please, — I care not. I 
despise the man who can think lightly of his 
early days. A mind of this stamp must be a 
total stranger to that reflection which tells us 
all we know of the philosophy of life. Such 
a one sits in his easy chair, — looks wisely, — 
speculates deeply, — speaks profoundly. With 
him " childhood and youth are vanity." — 
Wrapped up in self-sufficiency, he deems not 
that his mightiest schemes, weigh less in the 
eternal balance, than the veriest sports of boy- 
hood. The pranks and plans of infancy, are 






MY EARLY DAYS. 67 

the airy effervescence of uncalculating single- 
heartedness. They are shed from the young 
spirit's beauty, like the sweet perfume of a 
flower ; whereas, the tricks of your men of 
houses, lands, bonusses, legal pleas, and court 
intrigues, are nothing better than the marshy 
evaporations of the mere clod. The amuse- 
ments of the boy are but a secondary matter 
taken up for health and exercise, and relin- 
quished at the calls of duty. They draw to- 
gether a circle of social enjoyment ; they can- 
not exist in the presence of another's pain ; 
they deprive no one of a sound repose. Not 
so the sports of age ; they are too serious to 
be thrown by lightly. Like all mere animal 
pastimes, their supremacy is proclaimed in the 
solitude of the heart, — they keep a continual 
vigil, — they occupy the whole soul like a feel- 
ing of infinity, — and, what is worse than all, 
the play-ground of the mischievous wanton, 
with grey hairs and accumulated years, is too 
often selected, with an unnatural levity, on the 
wide field of human suffering and human sor- 
row. — But I forget myself : my thoughts have 
taken this wandering course from a deep im- 
pression of the importance of those days whose 
brilliancy or blackness gives a colouring to all 
that follows after. The clue of our destiny, 
wander where we will, lies at the cradle-foot. 
Self-love would willingly seek it any where 



68 MY EARLY DAYS. 

else, but there, — whether our manhood press 
the green savanna, or tread the- marble hall, — 
there, will the backward glance of the inquir- 
| ing spirit be ever sure to find it. 

It is to the enthusiasm with which the 
master dilated on the glories of astronomical 
science, that I may attribute the whole bent 
and turn of my subsequent life. On every 
other subject, he spoke with the habitual self- 
command of a teacher 5 but, when his darling 
theme was introduced, his coolness forsook 
him, and the feelings of a devotee took posses- 
sion of his soul. Passion appeared to work 
a miracle in his nature ; his tones, looks, and 
gestures, generally cool and calm, waxed warm 
and eloquent. It was then that I listened with 
greediness to the words of wonder that escaped 
his lips. I could have heard him discourse of 
Orion, Arcturus, and " the sweet influences of 
the Pleiades," for ever. 

I was, from my earliest youth, of a pale 
cheek and pensive temperament. At the pe- 
riod when we simply feel, without knowing 
why, or asking wherefore, there were things 
in nature that played upon my spirit, like the 
wind on the strings of the Eolian lyre, pro- 
ducing delicate music. I remember a place 
where the ground rose in gentle hillocks, co- 
vered with short fragrant heath ; the fern 
grew there, lichens abounded, and moss like 



MY EARLY DAYS. 69 

velvet carpeted the soil. Stones, of huge di- 
mensions, were scattered over it, as if in the 
playful mood of some capricious giant. The 
wild legends of the country pointed them out 
as burial-marks of hidden treasure. Here I 
loved to resort. A small stream, like a pil- 
grim doing penance for past misdeeds, traced 
its uneasy course through a chaotic mass of 
jagged rocks. Opposite to the seat which I 
ever occupied, a bank, without verdure, rose 
precipitously steep ; it was the margin of a 
wood ; the oak, the ash, and the elm, crowned 
its top, and threw their green arms protectingly 
over the passing stream. Whenever any thing 
went wrong with me, it was here — to this lone 
retreat — that I came for consolation. It was 
beyond conception pleasant, to gather the wild 
flowers of the full-fleshed summer, to strew 
them profusely on a bed of moss, — and, throw- 
ing myself at full length, feel, from top to toe, 
the blessed influence of the glorious sunshine. 
The powerful beams falling on my eyes, which 
were rather veiled than shut, formed a thou- 
sand fantastic images of the most dazzling 
lustre. The spirit within me no longer 
breathed a music exclusively its own ; its sweet 
solitary notes lost their individuality, mingled 
and mellowed among the tender harmonies of 
nature ; and the pulsations of an innocent 
heart kept time with the hum of the bees, the 
7* 



70 MY EARLY DAYS. 

rustling of the leaves, the murmurs of the 
wood-pigeon, and the plaintive fall of the ever- 
restless waters. 

With such a disposition, it is not wonderful 
that the heavenly bodies should prove to me 
delightful sources of contemplation. The mas- 
ter always found in me a willing auditor, when 
he chose to expatiate on the mysteries of his 
beloved science. The figures on the celestial 
globe rather confused, than assisted, my ideas 
of the constellations. The fables connected 
with the distribution of these luminous groups, 
were indeed calculated to amuse the fancy, 
but I thought them very absurd : and no les- 
son gave me half so much pleasure, as that 
which I received when gazing on the beauti- 
ful orbs themselves, sparkling like diamonds 
in the vault of etherial blue. When I was 
first told what was meant by the universe, the 
information I gained seemed to throw open the 
doors of an infinite and eternal world, and lay 
bare all its mighty and magnificent mechan- 
ism to the confined perception of my feeble vi- 
sion. When I thought of the many engines 
that are at work in the limitless space, — when 
I considered that all the forms of light and 
loveliness that crowded the vast concave, were 
even less than unity, compared to those that 
remained unseen, — that most of them were the 
centres of invisible and innumerable spheres, 



MY EARLY DAYS. 71 

— that probably, like our globe, each had its 
inhabitants, — niy brain grew dizzy, and I ex- 
perienced precisely the sensation I used to feel 
when, standing by the river-brink, on a clear 
day, I beheld the clouds reflected on the lace 
of the waters, and shrunk with terror from 
what appeared to be an immense and intermin- 
able abyss. 

* Children, as well as poets and lovers, may 
be alive to the charms of moonlight : I know, 
at least, that I was. I have sat at the door, 
like one spell-bound, watching the course of 
the imperial planet, as she moved in solemn 
silence through an unclouded sky. She looked 
so mild, that, when the stars were around her, 
I could fancy her a mother, circled by sons 
and daughters smiling in early beauty. I 
thought how happy those creatures must be, 
who are permitted to wander at large among 
these radiant spheres, exulting in the imme- 
diate presence of their Maker, and winging 
their way where all is still, save the soft float- 
ing of an immortal melody.. It was there that 
the spirit of my little brother had retired for 
refuge and for rest, ere he had yet known that 
the waters of life's fountain are bitter to the 
taste, — ere he had become tainted with sin, or 
touched with sorrow. Perhaps he was even 
now looking on me from those bright abodes, 
on which my eye rested with that strange and 



72 MY EARLY DAYS. 

resistless longing, which impels the heart from 
the scene that now is, to that which is to come. 
The passions of my nature, for the moment, 
died within me, — I felt the pure affections that 
are not of this world, pervading my soul, — I 
turned with a calm and imploring look of me- 
lancholy to the majestic orb in whose placid 
beam the sense of ill had slumbered, — and I 
half-wished that I might cease to be. A dark 
cloud passing over her resplendent surface re- 
minded me, that even she is under the influence 
of chance and change, and accords obedience 
to the laws of an all-ruling destiny. I per- 
ceived the folly of my wishes, and gave up 
my whole heart to Him, who is without varia- 
bleness or shadow of turning, who hath or- 
dained the moon and the stars, and wrought the 
Tieavens with his fingers. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

I had now been three years under the master's 
care. I was acquainted with the strong fea- 
tures of an English education, and my father 
proposed withdrawing me from school, for the 
purpose of commencing a course of classical 
and historical reading, under his own immedi- 
ate superintendence. When the hour of sepa- 
ration arrived, my kind teacher and I parted 
with mutual regret. I received his blessing, 
and returned to my home with the proud con- 
sciousness, of not having disgraced the name 
with which I left it. The companionless na- 
ture of my new studies, caused me for a time 
to feel a little solitary ; but the native quietude 
of my disposition, soon enabled me to forget 
the noisy "habits of the school-room. I was 
glad to be occupied once again under my 
mother's eye, for her health was still precari- 
ous, and my presence cheered her. In my 
sister, who was grown to be a fine little girl, 
I found an agreeable companion, and, whiles 
with great gravity I assisted in her lessons, f^ 
inwardly made many sage reflections on the 
value of a mind enlightened by information. — 



74 MY EARLY DAYS. 

My immediate occupations were far from dis- 
agreeable. The great names and daring deeds? 
recorded in ancient history, were sources of 
amazement and delight ; and, when a slight 
acquaintance with the Latin tongue enabled 
me to express a few common' ideas in the 
phrases of that language, I exulted, as if in the 
possession of some mystic secret which raised 
me far above th6 level of my kind. My old 
toys and playmates began to lose their interest. 
I no longer frequented the scene of our boyish 
amusements. I retired within myself; and 
distributed my time between my books, my 
secluded haunts, and a small plot of ground 
that, in imitation of Fahricus, I cultivated as a 
garden. 

One evening, as I meditated on the events 
of years long gone, my attention was attracted 
by a singular appearance of bustle and rejoic- 
ing in the village. I was completely ignorant 
of the cause, for of late I had not been much 
abroad. There were lights in the windows, 
guns firing in all directions ; and a great pile of 
green wood placed in the central street, 
emitted alternate bursts of smoke and flame. 
I eagerly inquired the meaning of a sight 
which I never witnessed before. I was in- 
formed that the tenants of the Glen-O estate 
were, in this way, expressing their joy at the 
return of their landlord, Sir John Fitz-Maurice, 



MY EARLY DAYS. 75 

after an absence of five years. I envied the 
man whose presence alone could make so many 
people Happy — and I would not have believed 
that, on one side at least, there did not exist a 
sincere affection. As the name of Fitz-Mau- 
rice is closely connected with the history <rf my 
early days, I feel myself called upon to say 
something about it. 

It was the boast of this ancient house, that 
they could trace their descent, clearly and un- 
equivocally, to an English captain, who held 
command in an association of warlike adven- 
turers, that landed at Waterford at the time 
the worthless son of Henry II. received the 
title of Lord of Ireland. The achievements 
of this great ancestor, which, to my simple ima- 
gination, appeared little better than the pro- 
ceedings of a plunderer and cut-throat, gained 
him an inheritance in the country that was 
forced to adopt him ; and were preserved by 
his descendants as sacred remembrances by 
which they were privileged to look up to the 
possession of power, and the assumption of 
consequence, as matters of undoubted right. 
A slip off the southern stem, transplanted to 
the north, took root, and produced the present 
family. Hugh Fitz-Maurice, the father of Sir 
John, was an extensive farmer, whose ruling 
passion was a devoted attachment to money. 
He was a member for the county of A in 



76 MY EARLY DAYS. 

the Irish parliament. Always contented with 
the powers that be, he never troubled his head 
about state-affairs. His attendance on the 
house was not by any means distinguished by 
regularity ; and when there, his vote was pure- 
ly passive, except some question touching the 
agricultural interests chanced to be discussed. 
A good-natured acquiescence in certain minis- 
terial measures, that bore a little hard upon 
the welfare of his country, procured him a 
mark of royal esteem in the shape of a baro- 
net's patent. The addition of title did not, 
however, disturb his plans of economy. He con- 
tinued faithful to his beloved parsimony to the 
last. His men were employed, in very severe 
weather, draining a marsh, by which he hoped 
to add an acre to his estate. Accustomed to 
cheer his working people by his presence, 
with which they would at all times have most 
willingly dispensed, he remained • with them, 
on a rainy day, rather longer than was pru- 
dent, and unfortunately caught a cold that, in 
the end, carried poor Sir Hugh to his grave, — 
where, strange to tell, he occupied but a few 
feet of the large tract of ground that, for up- 
wards of forty years, kept exclusive possession 
of his time and attention. 

His son< succeeded to his riches and public 
honours, with a determination, to which there 
are but too many parallels, of being as unlike 



ItfY EARLY DAYS. / t 



his father as possible in all things. He threw 

the rare of his property into the hands of an 

agent, thought of nothing but making a figure 

in the state, became a courtier, and resolved, 

at every hazard, to be no cipher in the great 

political account. To strengthen his interest, 

and increase his wealth, he married a lady 

closely allied to the noble house of Thomond. 

By her he had one" son and three daughters, 

of whom the boy, the eldest-born, was, at the 

time to which I allude, about fourteen years 

of age. Sir John's health being somewhat 

impaired by constant attendance on the house, 

he determined on a little relaxation from the 

cares of public life. His lady recommended 

the soft clime of Italy as the best restorative 

after fatigues, bodily and mental ; but matters 

1 of a prudential cast led him to prefer a visit to 

I his patrimonial territories at Gler-O. He 

; was too old a politician not to know, that prox- 

I ies are not always faithful to their trust. 

There would be no harm, he thought, in taking 

a sly peep at the w r ay in which matters were 

; managed by his deputy ; besides, the situation 

I of Fort-Maurice w T as highly salubrious, in the 

' summer season its appearance was even 

, romantic ; and, from the length of time that 

| elapsed since their last visit, it would appear to 

i them with all the freshness of novelty. Such 

were the leading considerations which were said 



78 MY EARLY DAYS. 

to influence the baronet in leaving Dublin, 
He bade a temporary farewell to his friend 
at the castle, packed his family into the great 
travelling carriage, and journeyed, in search 
of health, to the shores of the north. The 
village welcome that excited my curiosity was 
given on the very day that Sir John Fitz- 
Maurice re-entered the halls of his ancestors. 
The presence of a landlord, after a long ab- 
sence, causes a full flow of speculative conver- 
sation among his rustic tenantry. Their so- 
vereign is then among them, and a thousand 
surmises are afloat about the reason of his 
coming, the time of his intended stay, and the 
changes that may occur in the administration of 
his affairs, from the agent down to the gate- 
keeper. A great deal of this chit-chat was 
going on after the return of our landlord. I 
heard innumerable stories magnifying his per- 
sonal and parliamentary consequence ; and 
though my ideas of our national representative 
assemblies were extremely vague and inde- 
finite, yet the cloudy costume in which the 
imagination clothed his character as a public 
personage, served rather to inflame than allay 
the curiosity with which I thirsted for a sight 
of the great man. The very sound of his 
name carried a certain dignity along with it, his 
rank was most imposing, and I was morally 
sure, that one who sat in council with the 



3MY EARLY DA VS. i\) 

rulers of the land, must possess a mind and 
form fashioned after no ordinary style of 
architecture. Fancy continued working at 
the picture so long, that at length I had a 
Sir John Fitz-Maurice of my own, finished 
even to the last faint tints — the prince of land- 
proprietors, the Cicero of public speakers, and 
the beau ideal of Baronets. 

I was at my desk revelling over an English 
translation of Plutarch's Lives, considerably 
abridged for my use ; my father sitting at a 
little distance, quite at home in a copy of Cal- 
vin's Institutes ; when a knocking, the loudest 
we ever heard at our plain portal, reached our 
ears. Our contemplations were for the mo- 
ment broken by this unusual peal ; and, as 
the domestics were neither remarkable for 
numbers nor alertness, my father walked to the 
door himself, at a pace rather at variance with 
his usual dignified composure. He returned 
shewing in a stranger, whose manner and ap- 
pearance were unlike any thing I had ever 
seen before. The dress he wore, to my 
inexperienced observation, seemed at once 
ridiculous and splendid. An excess of art and 
affectation was apparent in all its compart- 
ments, though the materials were evidently 
rich and rare. He was of a low stature, in 
person rather pursy, with features strongly 
marked by the small-pox. His eyebrows re- 



m 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



sembled what one might be supposed to daub 
In haste with a piece of burnt cork, from 
beneath which peered a pair of black eyes, ex- 
tremely small and extremely vivid. The mus- 
cles of his brow must have possessed astonish- 
ing flexibility ; for, when reconnoitering the 
surrounding objects, he contrived, without 
closing it, to veil one of his eyes in such a 
way, as to concentrate all its lustre into a 
bright burning point, the other remaining all 
the time perfectly unobscured. The various 
departments of his countenance presented a 
whole, that required no common strength of 
nerve to look upon without shrinking. Yet, 
since the truth must be told, this man, with his 
unpleasant physiognomy, was no other than the 
original of my divine portrait— -Sir John Fitz- 
Maurice. 

A conversation ensued. I had a strong hope 
that eloquence and intellectual energy would 
at least display the senator, since a pleasing 
person failed to mark the man. Though I ap- 
peared completely absorbed in the pages of 
Plutarch, I was secretly noting every word that 
passed the lips of the important personage, 
from his entrance to his exit. 

" So, Mr. Ferguson, I see you're an im- 
proving man — This little box is a clear gainer 
by its change of masters." 

Ci My predecessor, Sir John, had a large 



MY EARLY DAYS. 81 

family to maintain ; and the will and the power 
are two very different things. I have but two 
children, and I wish, naturally enough, to 
make them as comfortable as I can. Besides, 
1 think I ought to use my best endeavours in 
improving the grounds, that the proprietor may 
have no cause to repent of his benefaction." 

" So — so — so — right — very right. — But, a- 
propos ; speaking of children, that reminds mo 
of the object of my visit — My son's tutor 
did not exactly like to quit the pure air 
of Dublin, and his place is at present unoc- 
cupied. I am told that you are competent 
to fill it. If you choose to do so while we 
vegetate here, all I can say is, that you 
shall have a good dinner every day, and be 
as well paid as he was — What think you, Fer- 
guson 9" 

The baronet dropped his flexible eyebrow, 
an air of lordly condescension mingling with 
the sinister cast of his features as he repeated 
his question ; thinking, from my father's si- 
lence, that he was struck dumb by the an- 
nouncement of the unexpected honour. 

— " Well, what says your reverence to our 
proposal % — hang it, don't fall asleep, man." — 

— " Your proposal, Sir John, would, on 
many accounts, be very acceptable to me — 
but,"— 

8* 



82 MY EARLY DAYS. 

— " But what V 9 said the baronet, elevating 
his eyebrow — 

— " But that the education of my own son 
renders it. impossible for me to attend the young 
gentleman at Fort-Maurice." 

As he spoke these words in a calm and 

steady tone, the member for A again 

dropt his eyebrow, but more rapidly than be- 
fore, and fixed his glance upon my father, as If 
he was dubious whether the person he scrutin- 
ized was, or was not* in the healthful exercise 
of his senses. The inquiry did not elicit any 
thing calculated to strengthen his doubts on 

that subject. " And so, Mr. Ferguson, my 

proposition is negatived nem. con. — Your time, 
it seems, is far too precious, to be thrown away 
on one who can, however, bestow a house and 
farm upon occasion — eh 9" 

" I am neither insensible of the honourable 
nature of the confidence you would repose in 
me, nor ungrateful for the free gift I enjoy as 
the pastor of your people, Sir John ; — but I 
repeat, that I cannot, consistently with my 
duty as a parent, relinquish for any offer, 
however tempting, the instruction of my 
child. It is a task which I am called upon to 
perform by the voice of nature and the laws of 
God." 

Here the worthy baronet thought proper to 



MY EARLY DAYS. 83 

whistle a tune, at the conclusion of which he 
resumed the conversation. 

" This, I presume," directing his hawk's 
eye to me, " is the learned youth — the well- 
beloved son, to whom you are pleased to allude 
in your various responses V 

My father bowed. 

" Pray, may I take the liberty of asking 
what may constitute the subject of your medi- 
tations, or, in plainer prose, what you are read- 
ing, young gentleman V 

" Plutarch's lives, in English, Sir," I answer- 
ed, blushing up to the eyes. 

" Ingenuas didicisse Jideliter artes, erncllet 
mores, nee sink esse feros" observed Sir John 5 
noting my confusion, and regaining his good 
humour as he proceeded in his quotation. — 
" Well then, Mr. Ferguson, since the moun- 
tain cannot go to Mahomet, there is no al- 
ternative but that Mahomet should go to the 
mountain. What think you of associating my 
tyro with this felix puer of your's, as socii et 
condiscipuli, under your paternal roof, until we 
may chance to light upon some one so poor in 
his pretensions, as to think a seat at our table of 
Fort-Maurice nothing derogatory to himself, or 
his duties 9" 

" If you do not jest, sir, I shall be most 
happy to receive your son at any period you 
may please to appoint ; and 1 shall so far assi- 



84 MY EARLY DAYS. 

milate the studies of my pupils, that the one 
shall possess an equal share of my time and 
attention with the other." 

In the name of Apollo, and the chaste 
muses, be it so," — said our visitor ; who, ask- 
ing my father if he was a judge of horse-flesh, 
proceeded to the door, where having lectured 
for a few minutes on the points of his hunter, he 
backed him and rode off, as if the fate of em- 
pires depended on his speed. 

" Ah, father !" I exclaimed, " never would 
I have supposed that gentleman to be Sir John 
Fitz-Maurice, the great member of parliament." 
— An evasive answer shewed no disposition, on 
his part, to enter on the merits of the case. I 
resolved the subject in silence ; I placed my 
picture in all the varieties of light and shade ; 
still, it bore no trait of resemblance to the ori- 
ginal. I was quite bewildered. At last, I ar- 
rived at this conclusion, that there was more 
in the composition of a modern great man, than 
my philosophy could possibly find out. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Disappointed in the idea I formed of the fa- 
ther, I had no very sanguine expectations of 
meeting a companion to my taste in the person 
of the son. He came early the next day, on 
a handsome bay pony fancifully ornamented, 
and attended by a servant in livery. He dis- 
missed the man at the door, desiring him to call 
at four o'clock, which, as Fort-Maurice was 
but three miles distant, was an arrangement of 
little difficulty. He saluted my father with an 
easy and unembarrassed air, and took my hand 
with such an appearance of warm-heartedness, 
that I felt at once on the familiar footing 
of an old acquaintance. Here as;ain had my 
foolish fancy played me a jade's trick. If the 
baronet failed to equal my lofty anticipations of 
his person and character, the youth on whom I 
now looked seemed as greatly to exceed the 
slovenly sketch which my capricious imagina- 
tion had drawn of him. 

Though very far from a standard of moral 
perfection, yet I have never seen a being so 
formed for fascination as Gerald Fitz- Maurice. 
He was made to win all hearts. He had at 
this time passed his fourteenth year, and was 



86 MY EARLY DAYS. 

of a height rather rare at his age. He inhe- 
rited the black sparkling eyes of his father, 
but they were large, and laughing with good 
humour. His brow was a pencilled line of jet 
without the perverse trick of flexibility. His 
lips resembled a parted cherry. The colour 
on his cheeks was so pure and pellucid, that 
you could have almost fancied the cunning 
hand of Nature had inserted rose-leaves un- 
der his transparent skin. The glossy curls 
of his raven-hair clustered on his neck ; and 
he might even have been pronounced girlish 
and effeminate, had not his healthful form and 
exuberant animal spirits, keeping him con- 
stantly in quest of exercise, added a warm 
tinge of brown to the natural hues of his elo- 
quent countenance. 

It was the misfortune of Gerald that he was 
— like me — an only son. His mother abso- 
lutely doted on him. She was a feeble-minded 
woman, with the prevailing follies of high life. 
She treated him more as a pretty plaything, 
than as a rational being in the first blow of 
intellect. It was her pride to see the beauti- 
ful creature bounding before her, dressed in a 
half-military costume, with his blue cap and 
buttons of flowered silver. Learning was mi- 
nistered to him in gentle doses, lest he should 
injure his constitution, or destroy his good 
looks. His father deemed him as yet too 



MY EARLY DAYS. 87 

young to require his personal superintend- 
ence ; and Gerald was left to be the arbiter of 
his own destiny, without the help of admoni- 
tion, or the guidance of control. Flattered 
by his inferiors, and idolised by his parents, 
his luxuriant spirit wasted its strength in the 
production of weeds and wild flowers, of w T hich 
the glare and glitter of the one availed their 
possessor little more than the rank and profitless 
fertility of the other. 

Few, or none, of these defects in character 
and education were visible to me, when I be- 
came unacquainted with this captivating boy. 
He looked like one that was all heart ; the 
very contradictions in our moral and physical 
temperament endeared us the more to each 
other. There was nothing monotonous in our 
intercourse ; our habits, manners, and ideas, 
were as opposite as if we were natives of a 
different clime. Perhaps it was this very op- 
position produced the harmony of our connex- 
ion, as the tones of different instruments form 
a concert in music. I possessed a simple se- 
riousness that amused him greatly ; he ap- 
peared to me the gay and generous hero of 
a romantic tale. I was shrinkingly sensitive, 
and nervously fearful of giving offence ; he 
was bold and reckless, with a confidence in his 
powers of pleasing, that kept him sinning and 
repenting from morning to night. After 



OS. MY EARLY DAYS. 

leaving school, T gradually dropt all communi- 
cation with my old companions. These were 
times when I longed for some one of a kindred 
age and feeling, to whom I might impart the 
little history of my day dreams. In Gerald 
Fifz-Maurice I found a friend, of a cast far 
superior to any thing 1 had experienced or 
anticipated. I did not hesitate to make him 
the repository of a confidence that knew no 
reservation, ilbove me in years, birth, for- 
tune, and the graces of person, the kindness 
with which he uniformly treated me, at once 
flattered my foolish pride and completely won 
my heart. 

Even my father, little disposed as he was to 
compromise his authority, was not proof against 
his witchery. He discerned in Gerald the 
seeds of a powerful understanding, and he 
was anxiously solicitous to cleer away the follies 
that obscured their growth, — a task of no 
common magnitude. I was almost three 
years younger, — yet, my education, if not so 
general, was much more substantial than his. 
To remedy the defects occasioned by indo- 
lence and inattention, my father endeavoured 
to place ray acquisitions in such a light as 
rcnVht produce a spirit of emulation in my 
thoughtless comrade. There were moments 
when his plan gave every hope of success, — ■ 
when the spoiled favourite of fortune, ashamed 



MY EARLY DAYS. 89 

of his deficiencies, called forth his energies, 
and displayed powers of great promise ; — but 
his return to Fort-Maurice always cooled his 
passion for learning ; and the resolution formed 
in the morning seldom survived to the ensuing 
day. Yet it was impossible to be angry with 
him, or even appear to be so : he possessed a 
versatility of temper that enabled him to make 
himself agreeable to every person on every oc- 
casion. When simply disposed to please, he 
was very charming, — but, when conscious of 
error, he wished to propitiate your resentment 
and regain your favour, he was altogether ir- 
resistible. 

But there was a circumstance in the charac- 
ter of Gerald that grieved us all : his religious 
education had been shamefully neglected. The 
bright points he displayed were palpably more 
the fitful emanations of a fine natural disposi- 
tion than the steady results of a fixed moral 
principle. This was a delicate affair with my 
father. The baronet w T as a member of the 
church of England, and a mere man of the 
world ; he well knew that any advances on his 
part, to promote the spiritual instruction of his 
son, w T ould be attributed to sinister motives ; 
his real object would neither meet success nor 
receive a fair construction. In the volatile 
spirit of the boy himself, there lay difficulties 
sufficiently appalling. The pastor of Glen-O 
^9 



90 MY EARLY DAYS. 

was not one of those that " compass earth and 
sea to make a proselyte," but he was afflicted 
to see so little fruit proceed from a tree so 
young, so fair, and so flourishing. In his af- 
fection for me there was something like a 
hope. I was. encouraged to direct the thoughts 
of my fellow-student to those sacred subjects 
with which I lived in sweet companionship 
from my infancy. Delighted with the impor- 
tance of the office assigned me, I commenced 
my labours with the zeal of a young mission- 
ary. My expectations were of a cast much 
more exalted than my father's : they lay no- 
thing short of complete reformation. How did 
all this terminate 9 — Time will tell. 

In a short time Gerald was like one domes- 
ticated in our family. On the very first day, 
when the servant returned for him, he desired 
him, with a smile, to present the compliments 
of a dutiful son to Lady Fitz-Maurice, and 
say, that he was so well pleased with his new 
teacher, he would continue to take lessons for 
the remainder of the evening. The man, who 
was no stranger to his young master's influence 
at home, did as he was desired. He remained 
accordingly, and his sprightly sallies and sportive 
tricks, caused Mary and I to regret the hour 
when our handsome and high-born visitor was 
compelled to return home. His mother even 
condescended to call upon us once, as I 



<•*■ 



MY EARLY DAYS. 91 

afterwards learned, at the earnest request of 
the affectionate youth, who was anxious to do 
all possible honour to his village friends. The 
shock of illness was still visible on my poor 
parent. She received many marks of atten- 
tion from the house of Fort-Maurice ; which 
certainly could not be attributed to the unbid- 
den kindness of its cold and haughty mistress, 
whose looks, not to be immediately disagree- 
able, were the most repulsive of any I had ever 
seen. Conscious that Gerald was at the bot- 
tom of all, though with a delicacy you would 
not have imagined to exist in such a careless 
creature, he affected ignorance of the whole 
matter ; it was not in the nature of things that 
we should know and not love him. 

It was a custom of my father's, to preach a 
few sermons every year for the particular 
benefit of young people. They were remark- 
able for their plainness and simplicity. He 
never indeed wandered far in the misty tracks 
of controversial theology ; but on these occa- 
sions, he studied to be more than usually clear. 
His doctrines were then as transparent as his 
heart. A discourse of this description was an- 
nounced for a certain Sabbath. I instantly 
resolved on inviting my young friend to parti- 
cipate in the instructions of that day. A fair 
opportunity was thus presented of making an 
auspicious commencement to the great work 



92 MY EARLY DAYS. 

on which I had determined. I made my re- 
quest accordingly. He did not meet my 
wishes on this subject with the alacrity he 
often manifested in matters of much less mo- 
ment. Seeing, however, that I was greatly 
interested in his going, rather than give me 
pain, he consented. The sermon was preached 
in the presence of Gerald. My father never 
appeared to me half so eloquent. His argu- 
ments were so convincing, his promises so per- 
suasive, that 1 could not help looking trium- 
phantly at my comrade, whenever a remark 
was made that appeared at all applicable to 
his situation. To my astonishment and de- 
light, Gerald's attention seemed profoundly 
occupied. Ke drew forth his tablets writing 
at intervals, as if determined not to trust pre- 
cepts so valuable to the faithlessness of me- 
mory. I felt a kind of unholy longing for 
the conclusion of the solemnities. I was most 
anxious to witness the sweet sensations of my 
friend. The blessing was pronounced, and 
the assembly separated. Gerald and I were 
among the first that quitted the house. Both 
were desirous of a private interview. We 
walked into the burial ground, and sat down 
upon a tombstone. I proceeded to feel the 
pulse of my beloved neophyte. I was so full 
of the thing, that I talked myself out of breath, 
not waiting for his answers, in my wish to 



MY EARLY DAYS. 93 

anticipate, what I was sure his feelings must 
have been. I zealously recapitulated the pre- 
cise points, that were best calculated to give 
the unilluminated mind a sense of its situation. 
I continued, nothing discouraged by the ob- 
vious inclination to yawn, which, to a less in- 
terested inquisitor, would have appeared very 
manifest in the countenance of my auditor. At 
last, after exhausting myself and my subject, I 
requested Gerald to favour me with a sight of 
his notes. 

"What notes V said he. 

" The notes I saw you take upon your tab- 
lets, — the notes of the discourse." 

He burst into a loud laugh. " Had you not 
talked so fast, I would have shewn them to you 
long ago. — Here they are." 

I took them hastily ; but what a disap- 
pointment ! — in place of making selections from 
the sermon, the wayward genius of Gerald 
caricatured the whole scene, with the excep- 
tion of my father. He struck off a resem- 
blance of the venerable master in his Sabbath- 
day vocation and antique garb, so ludicrous, 
and yet so like, that, had not my high-wrought 
expectations received too severe a crush, I 
fear I could not have resisted an inclination to 
smile. As it was, I felt little disposed to mirth. 
My first attempt had entirely failed. I was 
personally mortified. I could scarcely bring 
9* 



94 MY EARLY DAYS. 

myself to answer any question put to me during 
the remainder of that day. 

At this hour I am better calculated to ana- 
lyze my feelings than I was at that time ; and, 
on summoning up the shadowy semblance of 
sentiments and circumstances, buried beneath 
the weight of passing years, I am ashamed to 
say, that, in the hopes and regrets experienced 
during this early effort of piety and friendship, 
I have discovered no small leaven, of w r hat truth 
can call by no other name, than vanity. 



CHAPTER X. 

The wound, inflicted by the apathy of Gerald, 
was not long in healing. He was a perfect 
master of numberless pleasant inventions for 
killing time ; and, in spite of my resolutions to 
reclaim him, it appeared in the end much 
more likely that he should convert me. He 
grew upon my affections every moment. I 
found, in our social circle, nothing that could 
atone ^for the absence of this playful boy. 
When he left us for the day, I grew fretful 

j and capricious, and drooped over my lessons 
in sullenness and silence. My homely ap- 

i pare!, though always clean and comfortable, 
when I walked beside him, looked beggarly 
and mean. I paid infinite attention to my 
rustic toilet. It was but too evident that the 

; splendid appearance of my handsome asso- 

■ cite excited comparisons hurtful to my pride 

! and dangerous to my peace. 

During two days we neither saw, nor heard 

j from him. I became actually ill-humoured. 

! I confess, with shame and regret, that, for once 
in my life, obedience to my parents, was not 
the labour of love, As I sat musing at the 



96 MY EARLY DAYS. 

window on the morning of the third day, 
observed, with a fluttering heart, a servant in 
the livery of Fitz-Maurice approaching the 
house. He came leading the handsome pony 
of his young master, ready saddled and bridled. 
A strange hope sprung up within me. Per- 
haps I was invited to join my gay companion 
at his. lordly home. My surmise was just. 
There was a note, from Lady Fitz-Maurice to 
my father, written in the most elaborate terms 
of condescending courtesy. It requested him 
to permit me to make a visit of a month at 
her house. She stated, that her poor son was 
tortured with a cold, that greatly depressed 
his spirits, and longed ardently for the so- 
ciety of his little favourite. Ill as he was, 
Gerald made an effort to scribble half a dozen 
lines to me : — 



" Dear Watty, 

" Come over here ; forget hie, hcec, hoc, for 
" a week or two. I have vowed by Styx to 
" daub no more caricatures. — From this day 
" forward I am determined to be as grave as 
" a mustard-pot. I send Rosette dressed in 

her sunday-clothes : don't fail to try her 
" mettle on the way. Tell Mary that I shall 
" send her a chest-of-drawers to hold her baby- 
" rags — and gallop as fast as you can to your 
" own expecting N 

Gerald." 



a 



MY EARLY DAYS. 97 

I never dreaded my father's look of thought 
so much, as at the moment he stood deliberat- 
ing, respecting the answer lie should give to 
.this double invitation. I am of opinion, that 
it would have been unfavourable to my wishes, 
had not my dear mother, who perceived the 
agitation I experienced, produced a decision 
in my favour. Palpitating with joy, I tricked 
myself out in all the finery of my little ward- 
robe ; bade a hasty, and, as I now think, an 
unfeeling adieu, to my parents and sister — 
and trotted off as if the world were my own, 
followed at a respectful distance by my party- 
jcoloured attendant. 

] I met my youthful host at the gate leading 
to his father's proud abode. He was posted 
•there, anxiously awaiting my arrival. The 
I servant took charge of Rosette, and we went 
(in search of amusement until the hour of din- 
'ner. I never, at any time, saw my friend look 
,so extremely handsome. His spirits, far from 
suffering any depression, were, if possible, 
I more airy and frolicsome than ever. Nothing 
jgave him greater delight than my exclamations 
j}f astonishment, while surveying the various 
1 objects, with which the inventive spirit of 
Wealth, always thirsting after novelty, had or- 
namented the surrounding scene. Nature and 
I art combined to make it a wilderness of won- 
iers. I could have w T andered through it for 



93 



MY EARLY DAYS, 



ever, my eyes roving, from place to place, and 
from beauty to beauty, like one, who, seeking 
for entertainment in a vast library, travels 
over the immense surface of books, distracted 
by their numbers, and uncertain which to 
choose. 

The shrill peal of a bell warned us to re- 
trace our steps. When we entered the great 
hall, I was absolutely frightened by the gran- 
deur of its appearance. The powdered servants, 
hurrying to and fro, made me quite nervous. 
As I followed Gerald into the gorgeous apart- 
ment where dinner was served up, I thought 
I should have fainted A large company, of 
what are called persons of distinction, were 
assembled to grace the festive board. Struck,. 
I suppose, by the plainness of my garb, they 
stared at me as if I had been an emigrant 
from Otaheite. The first objects I discerned 
distinctly among the mass, were the flexible 
brow of Sir John Fitz-Maurice, and the sar- 
castic glare of his small black eye, as he view- 
ed me from head to foot. He took my hand 
with a grave and ceremonious air, and intro- 
duced me to his guests, as the Solon of Glen-O. 
I did not know whether to laugh or cry at 
this singular presentation. A dapper gentle- 
man, with very white teeth, proposed the name 
of Lycurgus as still more appropriate, my cos- 
tume being, he observed, classically Laconian, 



MY EARLY DAYS. 99 

This sally of wit created a general grin, which 
encouraged the diminutive personage to pro- 
ceed. 

" Pray, Sir John, is not this the pious youth, 
who, out of a holy love for thy heady and high- 
minded son, endeavoured to make him a de- 
mure Methodist parson V 9 

" Yea, and verily it is," answered the 
baronet. 

11 I'll be hanged though if that cock would 

fight," said a bluff old fellow, dressed in a green 

'hunting-frock and red waistcoat. — " He has 

too much of the blood of the O'Brian's in him 

to listen to such rigmaroles." 

" For shame, Major Macarthy," cried Lady 
■*Fitz-Maurice ; " make not our humble name 
;a reproach to the godly." 

"What is all this about V asked a cada- 
verous-looking matron, whose hearing was 
something blunted by age. 

" O, nothing, madam," replied the stately 
'hostess, with a complacent smile ; " nothing 
but a new fancy of our young hopeful that we 
have upon the tapis 99 

The call to dinner, to my great relief, ended 
the sublime conversation. 

The table was loaded with all the luxuries 
of the season. Of the greater part, I could 
neither tell the names, nor discern the uses. 
;The wines of France, Portugal, and Madeira, 

LofC. 



100 MY EARLY DAYS. 

sparkled in vessels of crystal, to stimulate the 
jaded humours of the drowsy sensualist; and 
the burning spices of the Indies were there, to 
provoke a fresh action in the sated appetite. 
From the haughty baronet and his illustrious 
guests I received a new lesson. 1 was taught 
to consider eating and drinking as a serious 
part of the business of life. I once witnessed 
a discussion respecting church-government, 
at a meeting of my father's presbytery, and I 
then remarked the impressive solemnity with 
which the debate was conducted. In this pa- 
trician assembly, I heard the laws of cookery, 
and the merits of the important personage 
that ruled the kitchen, canvassed with equal 
seriousness and greater ardour. Hungry 
though I was, I almost dreaded eating, lest my 
rustic habits should expose me to the ridicule 
of these distinguished beings. They were, 
however, too deeply occupied, to waste a 
thought on such a thing as I was. Gerald 
would hear no excuses, and forced me to 
taste of every thing that could gratify my unin- 
itiated palate. At length, we arose from table. 
I recollected that it was the first time I ever did 
so without hearing the blessing of the Creator 
invoked upon the banquet, and the thanks j 
of the creature returned for the mercies re- | 
ceived. 

Heavy sh wers of rain confined us to the 



MY EARLY DAYS. 101 

house. The ladies retired, leaving the gentle- 
men a glorious opportunity of getting rid of 
the intolerable burden of rationality , with which 
Nature, in her wantonness, had thought fit to 
load diem. Gerald was a favourite with these 
choice spirits, and remained amongst them. I, 
of course, followed his example. There were 
things said and done on that occasion, which 
I could not then comprehend ; but they were 
of a" description that I would not now name, 
nor, if possible, remember. A hoary debau- 
chee wished to ply me with wine, that he might 
have the joke of fuddling the young parson. — 
Unaccustomed to the use of stimulating liquors, 
my simple habits rebelled. After the second 
glass, I could take no more. Even this ele- 
vated me beyond the natural pitch. I laughed, 
capered, talked loud, made myself quite at 
home, and was guilty of a hundred fooleries. 
The night soon grew old upon our pleasures. 
We were escorted to bed in great form. Ger- 
ald and I slept in the same apartment. We 
chatted over the events of the evening, and the 
bo ids of intimacy were cemented to such a 
degree, that, in the enthusiasm of friendship, I 
closed my eyes to slumber, without once recol- 
lecting that I had a God and a guardian that 
claimed my adoration. 

The rosy light of the returning morn found 
me ill at ease, amidst a host of gloomy medita- 
10 



162 MY EARLY DAYS. 

tions. The reckless humour of my light- 
minded (companion, who rallied me on my 
sanctified looks, caused me to assume an ap- 
pearance of cheerfulness, This gradually gave 
place to real merriment, as the sense of mis- 
conduct deadened, or died away, in the crowd 
of boyish dissipations with which the heir 
of Fort-Maurice contrived to lighten the lapse 
of time. We strolled through gardens, where 
the fruits and flowers of a southern clime, half 
naturalized by the fostering hand of wealth, 
flourished and shot into bloom, as if in despite 
of Nature. We inhaled the cool breath of 
grottoes, where the fingers of a fairy seemed 
to have fashioned her abodes, glistening with 
coral, spar, rock-crystal, and the curious shells 
of the far seas. We reposed in hermitages, 
by which the most voluptuous might not disdain 
to linger. The moss borrowed a rich perfume 
from the jasmine, the honey-suckle, and the 
sweet brier. The voice of the distant water- 
fall, winding along the echoes of the hill, stole 
on the ear like the thrill of distant music. It 
was a paradise of sweet sensations. When 
Gerald laughingly asked me, if home was 
ever like this ? I could not help replying, 
Never ! 

There was a lake at a little distance from 
the family-mansion ; it lay embosomed in a 
dark grove. An island rose exactly in its 



MY EARLY DAYS. 103 

centre, ornamented with a miniature repre- 
sentation of a Grecian temple, and planted 
with the weeping-willow. The wild-duck shel- 
tered in its sedgy sides ; the large leaf of the 
water-lily spread its green expanse on a 
level with its margin. Here my friend had a 
shallop, in which he took great delight : it 
was a thing of the most delicate construction, 
tastefully painted, furnished with silken stream- 
ers, and a light sail white as the driven 
snow. When its owner, dressed in his garb 
of summer, and buoyant with the elasticity of 
young blood, propelled his tiny vessel over the 
lake's clear bosom, — in his gay mood, pur- 
j suing the solitary swan, that looked as if indig- 
i nant at this intrusion on its loneliness, — one 
J could not help giving way to the wild fancy, 
1 that the genius of the woodlands and the 
I waters was abroad taking his pastime, on ter- 
ritories decidedly his own. Gerald taught my 
( unpractised hand to manage the sail and use 
the oar .; and many a jest he enjoyed at 
the awkwardness of my first attempts as a 
mariner. When there was music on the island, 
we left the boat to the freedom of its own will, 
and reclining, one at the stem and the other at 
the stern, abandoned ourselves to the full en- 
I joyment of the tranquil indolence that creeps 
upon the sense, while reposing in the softness 
of sunset, and the sweetness of song. 



■f 



104 MY EARLY DAYS. 

During one of our aquatic excursions, I ac- 
cidentally discovered to my companion, that, 
though residing for years within a few miles of 
its verge, I had never yet seen the sea. He 
immediately decided on a journey thither. It 
lay at a short distance from Fort-Maurice, and 
the road leading to it was in good repair. The 
day on which we set out wore a threatening as- 
pect. Lady Fitz-Maurice insisted on send- 
ing the carriage with her beloved son. Ger- 
ald amused himself on the way, in repeating va- 
rious anecdotes illustrative of his mother's foolish 
fondness, as he called it, and in mimic king her tone 
and manner, in which, though a shameful sub- 
ject for a son's merriment, I must confess he suc- 
ceeded to admiration. When we reached the 
beach, we alighted from the carriage, and, as- 
cending a neighbouring eminence, I proceeded 
to gratify my curiosity by an unrestricted view 
of ocean. 

It did not altogether accord with the idea 
I formed of its tremendous magnificence ; yet 
I could not but acknowledge that it was won- 
derful — most wonderful. Its appearance on 
that day was not tempestuous, but troubled. 
The blue waves rose and fell, like the heav- 
ings of an unquiet bosom. They fretted them- 
selves to foam, as a fiery horse when driven 
against his will. I marked the stern career of 
the rushing waters ; I reflected, that for ages 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



105 



they had been travelling on their way, and 
that for ages they would continue to do so. 
Man might grow grey in watching the ebb 
and flow of the multitudinous ocean, yet he 
would observe no abatement of its speed, — no 
prostration of its vigour. It is a leviathan, — 
" a king over all the children of pride." Yet 
there was something saddening, in its sullen 
and ceaseless motion. The vast company of 
curled and crested billows seemed hurrying on 
to the accomplishment of some mysterious and 
melancholy destiny. Many a goodly form had 
they swept along in their reckless course. — 
Like man himself, many a mourning cry did 
they hear, unheeding in the hour of their 
stormy and desolating triumphs. A coasting 
vessel appeared in the distance : I pitied the 
hard fate of the poor wave-worn boy, compelled 
to seek sleep and shelter in the arms of so 
false a friend. Sea-birds of exquisite symme- 
try and dazzling whiteness, wheeling through 
the air, and venting their shrill plaints around, 
conveyed to my excited imagination, the idea 
of the spirits of shipwrecked mariners' lament- 
ing for their comrades on the deep. Sadly 
and silently I turned away from the mighty 
element, whose majestic form reflected so many 
images of sorrow. *f^ 

The voice of Gerald awoke me from my 
ocean dream ; he pointed to a romantic isle 
10* 



106 MY EARLY DAYS. 

that lay about three miles off the coast ; he 
said he would like, of all things, to pay it a 
visit in his boat on a fine day. It wore an 
appearance so picturesque and peculiar, that I 
warmly joined in his wishes. 

" Are you satisfied with your present visit *?" 

" Yes," I answered. 

" Well, then, let us back to mamma ; and, 
rely on't, it will go hard with me if I do not 
contrive to give you a merry trip to that self- 
same island, at no very distant day." 



CHAPTER XI. 

The month expired, and, in company with 
young Fitz-Mabrice, I returned home. Un- 
til the period of this visit, I never slept abroad 
for a single night. There was then nothing 
wonderful in the singularity of my sensations, 
on re-entering the paternal mansion. Like 
Gulliver, after his voyage to Brobdingnag, I 
conceived that every thing, during my ab- 
sence, had degenerated in size. The gar- 
den was a mere patch, — the trees were all 
dwarfish, — and our cottage, that, a short time 
ago, I reckoned the pride of the village, seemed 
scarcely fit for the habitation of a peasant. 
These were not all the changes that the inter- 
val of a few weeks effected. I witnessed a 
transformation in my feelings, still more dis- 
agreeable to dwell upon. I rode up to the 
door as if it were the entrance to a prison : I 
was a criminal, and self-condemned ; the cou- 
rage of my innocent days deserted me. In- 
stead of tripping, as I used to do, proud of 
having done my duty, I felt degraded with the 
consciousness of abusing my time — of treating 
my natural protectors, if not with ingratitude. 



108 MY EARLY DAYg 

at least with indifference, — and of turning my 
back on the faith of my fathers, and the pre- 
cepts in which I had been educated. Had it 
not been for my companion, I know not what I 
should have done : his presence protected me, 
even from myself, and I was actually happy to 
have him with me, that the whole attention of 
our family might not be directed towards me. 

My terrors were apparently without foun- 
dation. Mary kissed me over and over, — my 
mother welcomed us with her accustomed 
kindness, — and the countenance of my father 
was as still and as placid as I had seen it ever.- 
I left Gerald to answer all questions, and com- 
menced searching for my papers, as if I were 
determined to atone for past neglect, by in- 
stant and extraordinary diligence. In my 
haste and perturbation I began to read at the 
w r rong end of the book ; and w T hen the mis- 
take w 7 as pointed out, I w^as covered with con- 
fusion. With all Gerald's unbounded plea- 
santry, the day proved but a sombre one ; — 
there was something wrong in the machinery 
of our social circle ; — the jest flagged in its 
course, — and the spirit of heaviness spread his 
drooping pinion over us all. It was not with- 
out considerable solicitation that I prevailed on 
my friend to stay for dinner ; he grew weary 
and spirit-worn, and, after a meal, which ap- 
peared more than ordinarily frugal, he rose 
up and departed. 



MY EARLY DAYS. 109 

When he was gone, I lifted a book, and re- 
tired to my bed-room, neither to read nor 
sleep. My thoughts dwelt repiningly on the 
pleasures of Fort-Maurice ; it was there a 
that I tasted the sweets of existence ; th^re 
the hours glided by on wings of gossamer ; 
and even the rude face of Nature dimpled it- 
self to smiles, to wile the foot of man to linger 
in its solitudes. " Happy, happy Gerald !" 
I exclaimed, " who, beautiful thyself, art born 
to rule over scenes of kindred beauty !" 

I threw myself back upon the bed, and 
closed my eyes, determined to forget the pre- 
sent, and riot in the memory of the past. I 
indulged in the pleasures of imagination, until 
images and ideas, dark and discordant, danc- 
ing before my mental vision, foretold the ap- 
proaching slumber. I was roused by a light 
knocking at my chamber-door. It was opened 
by my mother. She pressed rny forehead 
with her soft hand, and inquired tenderly after 
my health. I told her I was quite well. She 
said she had made some tea on my account, 
as she supposed I was accustomed to it at 
Fort-Maurice. Her tones were faint and low, 
and full of affection. — My heart smote me. 

My father was abroad on a call of duty. I 
took a seat at the tea-table, with greater cou- 
rage than I was able to muster during the 
day. There was nothing said, or done, calcu- 



110 MY EARLY DAYS. 

lated to revive unpleasant recollections. I be- 
gan once more to feel myself at home. Our 
conversation assumed an interesting turn. The 
mild and endearing manners of the gentlest 
of women, won me back to old impressions ; — 
my thoughts ceased to wander to the pleasure- 
grounds of Fort-Maurice ; — I was at last able 
to meet the glance of her deep-blue eye, with- 
out shrinking from its light, like a robber at 
noonday. Whether it was, that the temporary 
absence, by giving a degree of novelty to 
things around me, made any change more 
palpable to observation, or not, I cannot tell ; 
but I could not divest myself of the idea, that 
my mother was much handsomer, and yet 
feebler, than I had ever seen her before. I 
thought it very strange that weakness should 
exist under the appearance of high health ; 
yet that it did so, I could not doubt. Her 
motions were uneasy and constrained, — her 
respiration rapid and feverish. There was a 
vase of flowers placed in the window ; some- 
thing had crossed her brain to trouble it ; she 
raised the sash with a tremulous hand, and 
bent her head over the gay creatures of the 
garden, to inhale the passing odour. The red 
rays of an autumnal evening were streaming 
over hill and valley, waste and woodland. — 
Perhaps they lent a deeper glow to the colours 
of her cheek ; for the rosiest leaf that bloomed 
beneath her, was pale, when compared to the 



MY EARLY DAYS. Ill 

single spot that burned in its centre. I drew 
a chair towards her, and seated myself by her 
side ; she gazed on me with a long and 
mournful look. The family-bible lay in the 
window : she desired me to read a particular 
portion of Scripture ; if my memory deceive 
me not, it was the eighth chapter of Romans. 
I obeyed. She took my hand at the conclu- 
sion, and asked me if I would promise solemn- 
ly to cherish the recollection of these high 
and holy breathings of the Divine Spirit, when, 
it might be, that she was no longer with me. 
I did promise, and solemnly. " Then, Fa- 
ther," said she, "thy will be done." After a 
fit of deep abstraction, she walked slowly out 
of the room. The flowers over which she 
had bent her drooping form, were glistening 
with drops of dew ; but they came from a 
purer source than the fountains of earth or air. 
The bible contained a number of engrav- 
ings, which I turned over with a wandering 
eye and a listless hand. I heeded them not ; 
my mind was roving through a wilderness of 
strange reflections. A slip of written paper 
falling from one of the leaves, arrested my at- 
tention ;— it was in my mother's hand ; — I 
have preserved it as a sacred relic up to the 
present moment. I could not then interpret 
its melancholy meaning — but it has long since 
ceased to be a mystery. The original is now 



112 MY EARLY DAYS. 

lying before me ; and, in copying its contents, 
I feel myself once more sitting in our little 
parlour — the bible open, where a plate repre- 
sented the meeting of Jephthah and his daugh- 
ter — the flowers in the window — the reapers 
in the corn-field — and my mother parted from 
my side, — though not as she has since been, — 
for ever. 

It was a poetical effusion; — I am nothing 
skilled in these things ; — I am not sure that it 
possesses any merit as a composition ; — but, 
whether or not, I think that one, loved as I 
was, may be excused when repeating a mo- 
ther's verses. This is it, word for word : — 

11 1 go to the land where the pure spirits dwell, 

'Midsi bowers of beauty and bliss, — 
Then why should I take an unwilling farewell 
Of a false fleeting world like this ? 
Do I wish to live over 

The past once again, 
That thus I discover 

At parting such pain ? — 
Oh no, 'tis not so, — 
Though my tears overflow, 
To my Master and Maker, 
I long to go. 

" Soft voices are calling, — O, haste thee away ! 

The feast is prepared, and the song ; 
The guests are in waiting, and we only stay 
To bear thee in triumph along. 
Our pinions have power, 
Unknown to the wind, 
And i*arth, in an hour, 
We'll leave far behind. 



MY EARLY DAYS. 113 

On high, as we fly 

To our home in the sky, 
The stars seem to whirl 
As we pass by ! 

" O, Father, forgive the frail being that grieve-, 

As she casts a last look below, 
On two that -ire tender, and one, that she leaves 
Alone, on a journey of wo. 

For a wife and a mother, 

Perhaps they'll complain, 
And the voice of another, 
Would cheer them in vain. 
TVheu deep in my sleep, 
A >ad silence I keep, 
They'll call on their loved one, 
And watch, and weep ! 

11 Thou God of all goodness, and mercy, and love, 

With my dying breath raised to thee, 
I trust that thou wilt to these mourners prove 
The guardian thou hast been to me. 
Ere the soul shall have broken 

It* fetters oi clay, 
O grant me a token, 
In answer, I pray, 
That I with no sigh 
Of regret, may then die, 
And haste to the heaven 
That waits on high. 

I retired to bed after reading these verses, 
humbling myself before the Almighty Being 
that, during the last month I had forsaken. I 
formed many resolutions for future good con- 
duct, and invoked a blessing on the slumbers 
of the night. All was not right within me ; 
for rny praver was not accepted. Visions of 
11 



114 MY EARLY DAYS. 

terror, and the forms of things unholy, polluted 
the temple sacred to repose. The presiding 
spirit fled from the profanation of their pre- 
sence, and the first dawn of daybreak found 
me longing for its appearance, restless and un- 
happy. 

It was now the busiest time in harvest. My 
father was occupied in the fields, saving the 
crop, which this year promised to be very pro- 
ductive. The season was unusually mild. 
My mother, w r hose strength appeared to re- 
turn, made me frequently her companion in 
excursions through the farm and the neigh- 
bouring grounds. On one of these occasions, 
complaining of weariness, I led her to a rude 
seat, formed out of the stump of an old beech 
tree. The adjacent scenery was of a cast cal- 
culated to interest such as love to moralize on 
the changing forms of material existence ; — 
man toiling to accumulate the golden gifts of 
nature, uncertain whether he should ever live 
to taste the fruits of his labours ; the birds of 
the air making merry over the joys of the pre- 
sent hour, leaving to-morrow to provide for 
itself; — the yellow leaves of the quivering 
aspen lying in myriads on the bare and barren 
stubble, preaching in their desolation a sad 
sermon to the sons and heirs of cold mortality. 
My mother neglected no opportunity of incul- 
cating a lesson of wisdom. She spoke of death ? 






MY EARLY DAYS. 115 

and the judgment to come. She told me, that 
there was nothing over which time held 
control worthy a serious thought ; that the 
pleasures and pursuits of this transitory world, 
changed their gay complexion in the autumn 
of our years ; and that youth, beauty, and for- 
tune, when the appointed season came, wasted 
and withered like a perishing leaf. While she 
continued speaking, 1 discerned the figure of 
Gerald Fitz-Maurice crossing an adjoining field 
in search of us. It was something singular 
that he should just start into view, as my mo- 
ther descanted on the vanity of human happi- 
ness. 1 hailed him. He joined us, breathless 
and flushed from anxiety and haste. 

" O Walter, I have great news ! We are all 
going to Dublin in a week. You must come 
home with me to-day. It may be the last time 
we shall ever meet together at our house. 55 

My heart felt sore at this intelligence, it 
was so sudden, so unexpected, I said nothing, 
but. looked to my mother for an answer. 

She stated, that she had no objection to my 
going for a short period with Master Fitz- 
Maurice, provided I obtained my father 5 s con- 
sent. 

" Where is he !" inquired Gerald. I point- 
ed to where he stood with his labourers. The 
lively boy, without waiting an instant, ran in 
quest of him. He came back with a counte- 
nance brightened by success. 



:d 



116 MY EARLY DAYS. 

" Come, Wat ; you are my property until 
Sunday morning. Your father consented, on 
my promise that you should return for sermon. 
Let us away immediately ; we have no time 
to lose." 

My mother took an arm of each, and we 
walked to the house. I was soon ready for 
the journey. I prepared to go forth as one 
about to fulfil a sacred duty of friendship. I 
kissed my beloved parent at parting ; and she 
mingled a blessing with her good-bye. How 
happy I now am that she did so. 

This was at twelve o'clock on a Friday in, 
the month of September. Shall I ever forget 
it ? — -Never, to my dying day ! 



CHAPTER XII. 

As we sauntered on our way, my companion 
beguiled the time by a vivid description of 
the metropolis and its attractive scenes. The 
streets, the theatre, the park, the parliament 
house, and the vice-regal court, had each a 
share of his eloquence. He sketched the 

I romantic beauties of the bay of Dublin, in the 

1 warm colours of an Arabian tale. He described 
the charming valleys that lie among the Wick- 
low mountains, reposing by the side of their 
stern mates, like gentle maidens wedded to the 
rough sons of battle, with all the pomp and pre- 

I cision of a professed painter of the picturesque ; 
ending every dissertation by a good-natured 

' wish, that fortune would grant him the oppor- 
tunity of shewing me these wonders of the 
world, on some future day. 

To my great satisfaction, there were no 
guests at Fort-Maurice. We indulged in all 
our amusements without restraint. In the 
evening, Gerald requested me to walk to the 
borders of the lake, where he promised to join 
me in half an hour. I did so, but the time 
was doubled ere he came. I made some silly 
11* 



US MY EARLY DAYS. 

jest on his stay, to which he returned no 
answer, but leaping into the boat, beckoned 
me to follow. He rowed like lightning from 
the shore ; then, throwing down the oars, al- 
lowed the shallop to drift at random. The 
silken streamers played in the breeze. He 
watched them for a little with a bitter smile ; 
then, tearing them down, cut them in pieces 
with his knife, and sprinkled the shreds upon 
the rippling waters. He trampled the snowy 
sail under foot, muttering something that 
sounded like imprecation. I grew seriously 
alarmed. His faultless features were distorted 
into an expression hateful to look upon. I 
feared that his senses wandered. 1 never wit- 
nessed any thing like it before. I laid my hand 
upon his arm. 

" What ails you, Gerald V 

" Nothing, nothing : let me alone 

" Not until you tell me what ails you. Sure 
you are not angry with me *?" 

" With you ! no, no, no — Not with you, 
Walter ; — not with you." 

" With whom, then, dearest Gerald ?" 
" Do not ask me just now ; — you shall hear 
all by and by." — 

I ceased farther question until his mood 
had passed away. He then explained the 
cause of these frightful emotions. From the 
time we visited the sea, he resolved on bringing 



MY EARLY DAYS. 119 

me to the island, according to promise. For 
this purpose, he took a secret trip to the 
beach, and, by a liberal donation to one of the 
fishermen, secured the use of a small boat for 
our intended voyage. To-morrow was the 
appointed day. That very evening he applied 
to his mother for leave of absence. The 
answer he received, was the cause of exasper- 
ating him to the pitch of fury I lately witness- 
ed. Far from granting him permission to 
venture on the ocean, her maternal fears were 
excited, and she intimated his intention to his 
father, who gave him a severe reprimand, and 
warned him never to mention such a thing 
again. " But I shall go," said Gerald, gnaw- 
ing his ruby lip, " were she ten times our 
mother." 

The following day every trace of angry pas- 
sion had subsided. His countenance, like a 
tropical sky after a storm, was as sweet and as 
smiling as ever. At the breakfast-table he 
talked incessantly, and was more than usual 
complaisant to his mother, who lavished on 
him a thousand epithets of fondness. All 
allusion to the late refusal and the cause of it, 
w T as carefully avoided. He craved permission, 
with great humility, to accompany me home at 
an early hour on Sunday, that he might redeem 
his pledge to my father. This was cheer- 
fully granted. Lady Fitz-Maurice, by way 



^20 



MY EARLY DAYS. 



of a cure for past grievances, added the privi- 
lege of remaining with us during the whole of 
that day. 

At four o'clock on Sunday morning, I was 
awakened by some one sprinkling water on 
my face. It was Gerald. He was already 
dressed, and caused me to hurry on my 
clothes, without allowing time for questions. — 
We descended cautiously, that the family 
might not be disturbed. A servant waited for 
us in the court-yard. He brought my friend 
a horse, equipped at all points, which he 
mounted, desiring me, as I was a less 
expert rider, to follow on Rosette. We chose 
.the private path from the house, and proceeded 
at a quick pace until we reached the public 
road. My companion took a direction oppo- 
site to that leading to my father's. I called 
to him$ thinking that in the misty light of 
the early mora he had mistaken the way. 
" You are wrong, Gerald ! You should turn to 
the right." 

He rode up to me I am not going to Glen- 
O, Walter ; that is, not immediately." 

" Then where are you going V 9 

" Just to the sea-beach, to have one look at 
that dear little island, since we may not touch 
its forbidden soil. There is no sin, or shame, 
I hope, in an hour's stroll by the shore. We 
can return long before your presence will be 
wanted in the godly throng." 



MY EARLY DAYS. 121 

Changed though I was, I did not like the 
tone of mockery with which he concluded 
his reply ; yet, seeing nothing very objec- 
tionable in his proposal, I consented to accom- 
pany him. 

We left the horses with a fisherman, who 
seemed expecting our arrival, and roamed 
about the strand till the sun had fairly risen : 
the sea shone, like a plate of polished steel, 
reflecting the deep hue of the azure heavens 
on its unruffled bosom. The countless pebbles 
that strewed our path sparkled like so many 
[ gems ; and the lonely isle, borrowing number* 
• less tints of beauty from the deceptive in- 
fluence of sunlight and of distance, seemed a 
( smiling home upon the deep, where the ocean- 
I pilgrim might hope to rest in peace. 

There were a number of boats moored upon 
j the beach. One particularly caught our 
notice. A staunch sea-worthy little thing, ca- 
I pable of holding four persons conveniently, 
Gerald proposed that we should take a short 
sail, and eat our breakfast on board, as he had 
brought some provisions with him. I spoke of 
returning homewards ; but he said it was quite 
time enough. I had not strength of mind to ( 
resist the temptation. We put off accordingly. 
My companion's spirits were so highly elated, 
that he obstinately refused the fisherman's 



122 MY EARLY DAYS. 

kind offer to assist in navigating our little 
vessel. 

The whole affair was, I am sure, a precon- 
certed thing on the part of Gerald. From 
the moment we started, he kept rowing directly 
for the island ; and, in spite of my feeble re- 
monstrances, I found, at the end of an hour, 
that we were by its very side. My friend gave a 
loud shout as he leaped upon the rocky landing- 
place, and welcomed me to the desired spot, 
with an air of triumph. When I surveyed the 
scene from which so much had been anticipa- 
ted, there appeared to me very little cause for 
extraordinary joy. The whole place had a 
bleak and barren aspect. It was a huge mass 
of rocks, thinly clad with sea-weed, patches of 
scorched grass, and the spectral forms of some 
blasted shrubs. Its distant loveliness was 
but a fantasy, false and fleeting, as the dazzling 
forms, with which the hopes of a young heart 
people the wilderness of life. 

We were very hungry, our appetites being 
stimulated by the sharp sea-breeze. There 
was something not unpleasant in the singularity 
of our situation, as we despatched our solitary 
meal in a cleft of the rocks. For Gerald, 
the wild and waste must have possessed pecu- 
liar charms, he was so happy in his new sphere. 
When I hinted the propriety of returning 
home, he ridiculed my holy terrors, as he 



MY EARLY DAYS. 123 

called them ; and, skipping from cliff to cliff, 
amused himself starting the sea-fowl from their 
haunts, and skimming with smooth pebbles the 
level surface of the sleeping surge. While 
thus employed, two fishing-boats appeared 
making for the island. They were filled with 
that description of the lower classes, who con- 

, sider the Sabbath as a day set apart for 

. revelling, and every species of profane amuse- 
ment. Part of them landed, and commenced 
drinking, as they had, according to custom, 

} provided a quantity of intoxicating spirits. 
The remainder began to fish ; and, in spite of 
all I could say, my companion made one of 
their party. 

) " Remember, Gerald, your word is pledged." 
" So much the better, Wat ; your's will not 

; be broken." 

This was all the satisfaction I received. I 
left them applauding my companion's spirit, 
and ascended to a sheltered and secluded 
rock, lying in the side of a lofty crag that 
beetled upon the wave. For a time I was 
diverted, observing the varied appearance of 

i the sea and shore, from my insulated resting- 

i place. I soon wearied of the sameness of the 
scene, and I fell into a strain of bitter reflec- 

| tion. Was it fitting that I should be in such a 

j place on such a day °l I dared not answer. 

] A voice from the solitudes of the lone isle, 



124 MY EARLY DAYS. 

seemed to accuse me of confederating with 
Gerald, to disobey our parents, and mock the 
sacred solemnity of a divine institution. We 
were Sabbath-breakers — Sabbath-breakers ! — 
What a name for my father's son to have, 
and to deserve ! I shuddered, as if wandering 
in sleep my eyes opened on the brink of a 
fearful precipice. Was this a fair return for 
the fond affection that cherished my infancy, 
and watched over my youth °l Was this a 
grateful tribute to a God of loving-kindness 
and of tender mercies % Oh ! no. A cold 
damp burst over my whole frame. I went with 
a tottering step to seek my associate, deter- 
mined, at all events, to stay no longer in this un- 
hallowed place. The fishing party were just 
returned. Their friends had kindled a fire, 
and they assembled round it, for the pur- 
pose of making a dinner on what they caught. 
I told Gerald, with firmness, that here I neither 
could, nor would, remain a moment longer. 
He said, that he was both cold and hungry ; 
but if I could muster patience to serve me for 
half an hour, he would steer off as soon after- 
wards as I pleased. I consented to the ar- 
rangement ; but refused to join in the festivity. 
My friend was loud in his mirth. These rude I 
people flattered his vanity with praises of his 
adroitness in managing the boat. Forget- j 
.ful of what was due to himself, to the 



i 



I 



MY EARLY DAYS. 125 

day, and to common decency, he sung 
vain songs, prated foolishly, and was persua- 
ded to drink a quantity of diluted spirits, as 
an antidote for the ill effects of the drenching 
sea-wave. 

When we bore away from the island, how 
changed were my sensations since the hour in 
the morning, at which I gazed upon it from the 
shore with unqualified delight ! I felt cold and 
comfortless. The clouds were of the darkest 
shade of grey, — the sea agitated by a heavy 
swell. It was an ebbing tide, but a smart 
breeze had set in fair for land. Something 
was wrong with Gerald. When he rowed in 
concert, he failed to keep time ; and when he 
insisted on using both oars, we floundered and 
tossed at the caprice of the wind. As he kept 
1 alternately abusing the vessel and the weather, 
, we espied one of the fishing-parties pushing off 
with all speed to overtake us. His pride took 
j fire. He swore, that while there was a stitch 
of canvass to be had, they should not be first 
\ on shore. He hoisted all our sail, and we 
■• scudded merrily before the breeze. Still our 
I rivals gained upon us. Their boat was evi- 
dently better managed, for she was much 
heavier laden, than ours. Gerald was exasper- 
ated. He desired me to take the oars on my 
knee, and balance the boat, while he trimmed 
; the sails. I did so. He threw off his hat, 
12 



126 MY EARLY DAYS. 

and extended his tall figure to its full height. I 
think I yet see his beautiful proportions — the 
long curls of his dark hair ruffled by the gale. 
He caught the rope 

" Here's a long pull — a strong pull — and a 
pull altogether. — The devil's in the dice, if we 
don't beat them now." 

I heard no more. A gust of wind took the 
sails fairly abreast, — in an instant we were 
dashed into the ocean. The oars were the 
saving of my life. I held one of them with a 
death-grasp. Ages appeared to roll over me 
while driven on the billows. The spray 
splashed in my face. I heard like the roaring 
of many cataracts, but could see nothing. At 
that moment I neither felt hope nor fear, — in- 
stinct alone was all that lived within me. 
Nature at length gave way. I could hold out 
no longer. The oars slipped from my benumb- 
ed fingers. Of what succeeded that time of 
horror, I have no remembrance. 

I learned afterwards, that the people on the 
island, observing our unsteady motions, put 
off to our assistance. They reached us in a 
few minutes after the boat was overturned. 
They succeeded in picking up me, without 
either sense, or animation. A messenger was 
despatched to our respective parents, while 
every means that could be devised were tried 
to awaken the principle of life that lay slum- 



MY EARLY DAYS. 127 

bering in my exhausted frame. The breath 
was indeed recalled, but I was carried home, 



dreadfully ill, in a state of absolute delirium. / 

| " Gerald ! late as it is in the evening of my #~ 
days, when the memory of past griefs has 



faded — even now, would I, if possible, pass 
over thy untimely destiny in silence. That 
buoyant and beautiful form, on which thy fond 
mother doted, never gladdened her expecting 
eyes again. She might take many a long look 
from the lofty windows, before she would 
again see her darling, bounding over the green 
sward, like a young deer, to meet her call. 
Thou wert gone — gone — gone. The tree of 
thy proud race was shorn of its loveliest blos- 
som ; — thy father's princely fortune was fated 
to adorn a stranger's name. Why is there yet 
one vacant place among the tombs of thine 
ancestors °l It is a vain and empty show. The 
guest it waits for will never return to grace 
it. The spirit of Gerald was restless when in 
life — in death he possessed a troubled grave. 
He was sepulchred among the waters — 
among the wild, weary, wasting, wandering « 
waters. ^T"* r ""l" 

The unfortunate boy was seen to swim for 
a few seconds after the fatal accident occurred. 
They strained hard to save him, but they came 
tpo late. He was borne off by the waves of 



128 MY EARLY DAYS. 

an ebbing sea. The pale son of the poor 
pastor of Glen-O was preserved. The bloom- 
ing heir of the wealthy house of Fitz-Maurice 
was gone forever. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

tc I can hardly believe it ! Can it be possible 
that I am once again at home *? at my own 
dear home, after such a long, long night of 
dreadful suffering. My lips still smack of the 
salt sea ! 'Tis not strange that this poor frame 
feels feeble. — Many a strong man perished in 
that storm. Their dying cries yet vibrate in 
my ears. O, it was horrible to witness. — I 
would not be a mariner for worlds ! — To see 
those ugly monsters of the deep, striving which 
should be first upon them. — Ah ! God help 
them, their's is a wretched fate ! 

" Speak to . me, Gerald. — You have slept 
enough. — It will steal all the pretty roses from 
your cheek. — Say your prayers, boy ; we 
have had a marvellous escape. — They have put 
us in one bed, you see, that we may keep each 
other warm. — We had need of that ! — Gerald ! 
— Gerald ! — Gerald ! — Why don't you speak 
to me ?" 

" Lie quiet, child, and be at peace ; you are 
too weak to rise." 

" You say the truth, old ladv ; but where is 
Gerald?" 

12* 



180 MY EARLY DAYS. 

" The doctor will be here directly ; — he will 
tell you all." 

" Well then I'll close my eyes until he 
comes. — Good morrow, sir ! — I have seen you 
with my mother. — Why is she not here ? — I 
have a long story for her. — I remember she 
opened the door for us in her night-gown. — 
We disturbed her, but you know we could not 
help it. — Let her lie still. — She is sickly, and 
requires rest. — But where is Gerald*?" 

" Gerald is gone home." 

" Ay, to his father's* — I did not think of 
that. — They'll be glad to see him. — Is it time 
to rise, doctor *?" 

" Not yet, my dear — Drink this. — It will 
take the salt taste off your lips." 

" Will it ? — Then here goes. — O doctor, if 
you had seen that storm !" 

The following day reason returned in full 
force, and with it a perfect consciousness of 
misery. I was awakened by the song of the 
redbreast above my window. At its simple 
note, a crowd of recollections throbbed upon 
my brain. The thing I had been, and the 
thing I was, stood side by side. The contrast 
was most painful. I knew the face of my at- 
tendant, and addressed her by name. She 
appeared pleased and surprised. — " How long 
have I been lying, Martha V 7 

" This is the sixteenth day, and I thought 



MY EARLY DAYS. 131 

you never would have lived to see it ; but the 
Lord has been most merciful." 

" He has indeed. Do not deceive me now. 
— Is not Gerald Fitz-Maurice dead V* 

The old woman looked at me steadily. She 
saw I was quite composed. — " Yes," she an- 
swered, " he is dead." 

• " How is my mother ? — Why is she not with 
me r 

" She is ill, and confined to her room. 

11 No wonder, — no wonder. — I know who 
is to blame for that. — Martha, — Martha. — I 
have been a wicked son ! — But my father and 
Mary V 9 

" Mary is at farmer Williamson's. — Your 
father visits you every hour. — You may ex- 
pect him soon." 

" Soon ! — How soon *?— I would not meet 
him now — not just now, dear Martha." 

" Here he comes !" she cried ; and he en- 
tered the apartment. 

I had not time to cover my face with the 
clothes, and was compelled, however unwil- 
lingly, to look upon my father. He appeared 
to have borne a full share in the troubles of 
these distressful days. He was as one on 
whom the hand of sorrow had pressed heavily; 
yet his grief seemed to have been more on 
account of others' sufferings than his own. 
Never before did he express himself to me 



132 MY EARLY DAYS. 

with the same ardour of affection that he did 
at that instant, when I trembled before him, a 
guiity agent in a wide scene of wo, He placed 
his arm under my head, and raised me me up, 
that I might breathe with the greater freedom. 
He spoke words full of comfort and consola- 
tion. He praised the God of all grace and 
mercy, that restored to him his dear, though 
erring son. He trusted that the affliction with 
which it pleased Him to visit us, would become 
sanctified to our use, and remain as a blessing. 

" Be of good cheer, Walter ! — Whom the 
Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth 
every son whom he receiveth." 

I could not restrain my feelings. I threw 
myself on his bosom, and exclaimed, in the 
words of the prodigal, — " Father, I have sin- 
ned against Heaven and before thee, and am 
no more worthy to be called thy son !" After 
humbling myself before him, I was relieved, 
greatly relieved. 

On the bed of sickness, I had leisure to 
think upon the past. The scales fell from my 
eyes. I saw r , with a perfect vision, the wreck 
that low desires and a wretched vanity made 
of the better principles and habits of my 
youth. Until the hour that I mingled in the 
dissipations of Fort-Maurice, I was happy. 
At that hour, my guardian angel abandoned 
sie. A proud, 'ungrateful, sensual demon 



MY EARLY DAYS. 133 

usurped his place. Peace and purity fled to- 
gether. I no longer drank from a limpid 
stream of untainted joy. 1 courted intempe- 
rance in a loathsome mixture of mud and wine. 
Pride drugged the cup, and folly gulped it 
down. Thoughts and emotions, as turbid as 
the baleful draught, banished the consoling 
quiet of conscious rectitude. I was near be- 
coming a lost and ruined boy — a false and for- 
saken thing. False to my parents and their 
precepts, forsaken of God and of myself. I 
beseeched the Lord, with my whole soul, that 
I might be forgiven ; that he would not re- 
buke me in his great indignation. I sought 
the assistance of the Divine Spirit, to enable 
me to keep the vow that I now made, solemn- 
ly and sincerely, to do so no more. That vow 
was ratified — fearfully ratified. — Death was its 
witness, and a breaking heart its seal. 

Until I was quite recovered, my thoughtful 
and loving father, would not permit me to 
leave my room. I grew very uneasy about 
my mother, who Martha informed me, still 
remained unwell. The day my confinement 
terminated, I longed impatiently to see her. 
The old woman opposed my wishes. She 
said, that, in her present precarious state, the 
shock of my appearance might be too much 
for her to bear. My father did not join in her 
observations ; but this was quite enough. No- 



134 MY EARLY DAYS. 

thing could induce me to intrude on her, 
should but her little finger be caused to ache 
at my presence. When evening arrived, I 
wrapped myself up closely, and stole out alone 
to meditate and mourn. 
! I took the private path leading to the school- 
house and my fathers chapel. The hum of 
the village reached not this lone track. Every 
thing around was still. I heard nought louder 
than the fitful beatings of my feverish bosom. 
The soft maternal breath of even was most 
grateful to my oppressed spirit. It came like 
balm upon my brow and brain. Sorrow 
sighed itself to sleep, and tears, more sweet 
than bitter, rolled from my eyes in a silent 
stream. 

I found myself, almost without knowing 
howl came to be there, leaning against a wild 
plum-tree in our secluded burial-ground. I 
liked the spot. A tall thick hedge, rising im- 
mediately behind, divided it from the farm- 
fields, and screened the loiterer from all ob- 
servation. My name was carved upon the 
trunk of that old tree. It reminded me of 
other and happier times. I clasped my right 
arm around it, and pressed my colourless 
cheek close to its hoary stem. There was a 
new-made grave at my very foot. As I bent 
over it, sad and sorrow-stricken, I might have 
represented memory weeping at the tomb of 



MY EARLY DAYS. 135 

love, I heard the sound of approaching foot- 
steps. — It came from the other side of the 
hedge. — 'Twas the labourers returning from 
the fields. They had toiled hard, and yet 
their hearts were lighter far than mine. They 
j drew nearer. They pronounced my name 
often, and earnestly. I held in my breath, and 
listened. What could it be °l They were just 
behind me. — I could not mistake a single 
word. 

-" She's eight days buried, you say V 9 

" Just eight. — She lies on the opposite side. 
— We had some trouble digging the grave 
• among the plum-tree roots. — 'Tis a tough soil 
that same." 

" Every body speaks well of her. — She w T as 
a good woman, I believe V 9 

" That she was. — Pity she died so young. 
— The master says she was but three and 
thirty. — Och ! he's the sorry man that she's 
gone." 

" Isn't the son going too V 9 

" So they say. — It's no great matter, anyway. 
— Sir John will never let him live in peace, 
after drowning his heir. No wonder ; for he 
was as handsome as a lady." 

" 'Twas the news of that killed his mother." 

" Ay, a boy came running from the beach 
when her husband was at prayers, and told a 
terrible story about her son being drowned 



136 MY EARLY DAYS. 

with young Fitz-Maurice. She had been poor- 
ly for a long time, and this finished her. She 
died in a day or two afterwards. — The poor 
will miss her sorely." 

"And so will her husband — the minister. 
— Yes, he was very fond of her. — Heaven 
help him ! — Amen, amen !" 

Powers of mercy ! this was my mother's 
grave ! 



CHAPTER XIV. 

No — no — no ! — it would have been vain, 
very vain ! There is not a language spoken by 
man, could express what passed within me, 
before and after the dark and dismal hour, 
when they bore me from the cold sod, wet 
with the dews of the night, and the damps of 
the grave. For a grievous sin, I suffered a 
grievous chastisement. Worse than death 
followed ; far worse, for those to look upon 
that loved me. A cloud came over my intel- 
lect. My existence was a blank among think- 
ing beings. I knew no one — not even my 
own father. I lived in a world of phantoms ; 
and, what is rather strange, 1 remember all 
the airy creations of my unquiet brain, as 
vividly as if they were the foremost facts of 
real existence. Nero was from my classical 
readings, familiar to me as a monster. It was 
the curse of my imagination, to couple me with 
him. The spirit of the savage Roman was by 
my side from morning to night, hooting, and 
mocking, and grinning. ' I too have slain my 
mother ! 5 was the hideous cry. We were 
mated as destroyers. It was the very cunning 
13 



138 MY EARLY DAYS* 

of my dreadful destiny, that I should thus be 
united to a fiend of blood. 

This could not always last. Care, attention, 
and, above all, youth, at length dissipated the 
horrid dream. I could once again see things 
as they really were. Providence, in his mercy, 
restored me to the full use of my senses ; but 
the vigour of health, and the fire of a young 
spirit, were gone, to return no more. Even 
now I am subject, on any excitement, to those 
nervous affections which, for months and years, 
would, from the slightest causes, produce tears 
and tremblings. My father, — my dear — my 
kind— my good father, omitted nothing that 
human ingenuity, or affection, could devise, to 
wile me from the society of sorrow. The poor 
old master visited me every day. He revived 
my taste for astronomy and mathematical 
science. Every exertion was made to en- 
courage me to persevere, and they succeeded. 
I became devoted to those sweet and solitary 
studies, that tend, above all others, to keep the 
eye fixed upon its God. I could now live 
alone, without being lonely. I wore the pre- 
cious gift of my departed parent in my bosom, 
and I engraved its precepts on my heart. I 
read no human comment on its text ; but, in the 
works of the Almighty, I sought an explana- 
tion of his word. I gazed through a vista of 
endless worlds j I sought to comprehend the 



MY EARLY DAYS. 139 

laws that regulate the universe. The little I 
learned, only made me long for more. My 
soul grew into one intense and passionate feel- 
ing of boundless adoration. I laid down my 
burden of sin and shame at the foot of the 
Redeemer, and offered up the incense of an 
enraptured spirit, to that mighty and mysteri- 
ous Being, who, even in the sublimity of ex- 
haustless spheres, vast, varied, and all-beauti- 
ful, has but portrayed poor, pale, and passing 
emblems, of his power, purity, and perfection. 
To a common observer, my father would 
I appear nothing altered by his beloved part- 
i ner's death. His countenance wore its ac- 
! customed expression of stillness and serenity. 
; In all his trials a murmur never passed his 
lips. He walked calmly on his way, and bless- 
! ed his God. Yet there was that in his man- 
i ner, which, though it might escape the multi- 
I tude, escaped not me. There w r as a devoted- 
I ness in all he did, like a stranger conforming 
himself to the customs of a foreign land, as a 
i thing that must and should be, yet pleased 
| with the thought that an hour was coming to 
set him free. With him life was endured, but 
not enjoyed. His eye was fixed on something 
beyond its precincts ; and the mournful melody 
of his touching tones came on the ear, like 
echoes from the hollow cells that the dropping 
of a constant grief wears in a breaking heart. 



140 MY EARLY DAYS. 

The folly, or cruelty, of Sir John Fitz-Maurice, 
made him a persecuted man. His lady insist- 
ed that the son of the canting hypocrite, as she 
called my father, was^the cause of her Gerald's 
untimely end. She vowed never to sleep a 
night under the same roof with her husband, 
if he did not banish the nest of impostors from 
the bounds of his estate. As far as his power 
extended, she was obeyed. We saw our house 
and farm pass into other hands ; yet what was 
intended as an injury, was perhaps an act of 
kindness ; — we had there too many memorials 
of my mother. We were prohibited from en- 
tering the chapel grounds to meet our Maker, 
where his praises had been celebrated for up- 
wards of fifty years. Tyranny did its worst. 
Even that was ineffectual to complete its ob- 
ject. The pastor found for his children an- 
other home — for his people, another taberna- 
cle ; — and I hope God has forgiven them that 
made the change necessary. 

It had been my father's wish, and my own. 
that I should fill the ministerial profession ; 
but my broken constitution, and our embar- 
rassed circumstances, rendered the project im- 
practicable. He enjoyed, however, the satis- 
faction of seeing me settled in a situation both 
pleasant and profitable, before he died. I was 
appointed astronomer to the Archiepiscopal 
Observatory at A — — . It was the very thing 



MY EARLY DAYS. 141 

best calculated to make me easy, as in it my 
pleasures and pursuits were identified. My 
sister came to live with me after his decease. 
He did not long survive my mother. In the 
arms of his children he breathed his last. 
His dying words were in pity for us who were 
to remain behind ; — as for himself, he felt like 
a prisoner about to be set free. He w T as a 
bright example of the value of a life spent in 
' \ communion with God When the hoar that tries 
all hearts approached, he passed from among us, 
smiling with faith and hope. No hollow bell 
told the world that he was gone— no proud 
1 cavalcade of tearless mourners mocked his pcor 
remains — no plumed hearse bore his uncon- 
1 scious dust. Those that loved him in life, 
carried him to his last home. His memory 
was not forced upon posterity by the tricks of 
the hireling sculptor, or the rhymes of the 
paltry versifier. It was cherished where it 
would not soon be forgotton, — in the affections 
of his people, — in the hearts of his children. 
The memorial he left behind him was, a " con- 
science, void of offence, towards God and to- 
wards man." 
! i My father's death did not oppress my spirit, 
i as like occurrences had previously done. Grief 
J prepared me for it, — for any thing. At all 
events, there was nothing in it to shock the 
sense. Dissolution witnessed no change ia 
13* ' 



142 MY EARLY DAYS. 

him. His manner was still mild and tranquil. 
If there was any difference, his tones were 
less melancholy, and his looks more cheerful. 
I can compare his departure to nothing that re- 
sembles it so closely, as the setting of the sun, 
on one of those clear-obscure evenings, when 
summer is on the wane. 

There was ever a strong attachment between 
my sister and I. It was right that it should 
be so ; but these things do not always follow, 
because they are right. Mary was a good and 
gentle girl, and proved tome a treasure. She 
had an intuitive knowledge of every thing that 
could add to my comfort, and in reducing 
her knowledge to practice, she evidently took 
great delight. I was subject to fits of melan- 
choly — and perhaps sometimes disposed to be 
fretful and capricious ; illness will often do 
these things in spite of us — but Mary's patience 
and playfulness w T ere not to be exhausted. She 
pleased me out of all my little humours, as if 
I were a petted child ; and she can tell if I 
proved sufficiently grateful for her kindness. 
We lived in a little world of our own, where we 
were all in all to each other, and we sought for 
nothing beyond it. Among the many I was 
forced to meet in the discharge of my official 
duties, I formed but one friendship. It was 
for a young man of worth, learning and abilities, 
an unappointed clergyman of our faith. He 



MY EARLY DAYS. 143 

came to see us very often. I encouraged his 
visits, for he was of a serious cast, and half 
an enthusiast in my favourite science. In the 
end he became attached to my sister, and con- 
sulted me on the subject. 1 reflected on my 
vacillating health. I pictured to myself how 
lonely and unprotected she should be, were I 
to be called suddenly away. I broke eff the 
affair to Mary. She acknowledged that she 
entertained a high esteem for our friend ; but 
she could not think of leaving me alone among 
'those who knew not how to supply her place. 
She said her mind was made up to live and 
die with me. I was determined never again 
jto sacrifice those I loved, to feelings merely 
i selfish. I reasoned with her, and at length 
prevailed. My friend was called to a congre- 
( gation ; and I had the satisfaction of giving 
I her in trust to one, every way disposed, and 
every way calculated, to make her happy. 

Only for occasional attacks of illness, my 
I occupation would have proved exceedingly piea- 
jsant. I succeeded in making myself known 
| among literary people, and cultivated a cor- 
respondence with a few characters, equally emi- 
nent for piety and talent. But confinement 
and great mental exertion, were gradually eat- 
ing away the remnants of a corroded constitu- 
tion. I was a martyr to headache and ex- 
haustion. My finances would not permit me 



244 MY EARLY DAYS. 

to follow the counsel of my medical adviser, 
who recommended a journey to a warmer 
clime. I therefore resigned myself to the great 
Author of events, contented to live or die, as it 
pleased him to dispose of me. One morning, 
as I was earnestly engaged, attempting to cal- 
culate the parallax of a fixed star, I received a 
letter with a huge black seal, addressed to 
Walter Ferguson, Esq. The colour of the 
wax, led me to imagine something evil. I had 
a nervous attack, and a considerable time 
elapsed before I could summon resolution to 
read its contents ; w T hen I did, they ran as 
follows :— 

" Sir, 

" As the executor to the will of your late 

" grandfather, Walter Maxwell, Esq. of A , 

" I have to acquaint you that, being the only 
" son of his daughter, Mary Maxwell, other- 
" wise Ferguson, you are the sole heir to all 
" his large property, real and personal. You 
" may not be aware that you succeed to the 
" inheritance in co ^sequence of the demise of 
" your two uncles — one of whom, died of the 
" yellow fever in the West Indies, the other, 
" perished at sea on his return home. 

" The affairs of the estate craving your im- 
" mediate presence, I request that you will 



MY EARLY DAYS. 145 

" appoint a time and place, for conferring on 
" matters of business, without delay. 

" I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
" at command, 

Jonathan Wilson." 

I met Mr. Wilson according to his request, 
and, accustomed as he was to the details of 
business, I astonished him no little, by the 
coolness with which I treated the whole mat- 
ter. I found myself rich beyond all that I 
ever calculated or cared for. I was the un- 
, disputed master of sixty thousand pounds. To 
| my limited views, such a fortune appeared in- 
; exhaustible ; yet I was nothing elated by its 
possession. There were just three things 
which I rejoiced to think I should now have 
i the means of compassing,— my sister's perfect 
j independence, — the possession of a library and 
' observatory of my own, — and a trip to some 
,part of the continent, for the benefit of my 
health. Lest the remedy should come too 
I late, I proceeded on my tour as soon as cir- 
I cumstances admitted. I visited every place of 
| note in France and Italy. My love for nature 
! returned in its first force, and it was amply 
I gratified while contemplating the glorious 
scenery of the Rhone, the Loire, the Po, and 
(the Arno. I mingled also as a spectator in 
what is termed fashionable life ; but here I did 



146 MY EARLY DAYS. 

not experience a similar satisfaction. In those 
shining circles, I met with little save what was 
heartless and hollow, and I came back with a 
keener zest, to my native country and my 
sister's fireside. 

This is the month of August. On yester- 
day I completed my forty-fifth year. I did 
more ; I closed the purchase of the Glen-0 
estate with the heir of Sir John Fitz-Maurice. 
The place is much altered since we left it — I 
can hardly imagine that it is the same. Yet it 
is still dear, very dear, to me. What changes 
1 have witnessed in my short span of life ! I 
am now a master, in the very room, where I 
sat a trembling and unhonoured guest. — Yon- 
der lies the fairy lake and its temple among the 
willows ;• — but where is the pretty boat, and 
the beautiful form that ruled its motions c l— 
Does that heart-stirring laugh still echo through 
the grove °l — Gerald ! — Gerald ! — Who an- 
swers to my call*? — Pshaw! 'twas the hills 
that returned my own words, as if sent on a 
bootless errand.— Poor boy ! poor boy !— 
These nerves are at work again — I am sick 
and faint! — 

Yes, — I will rebuild the home of my youth. 
Its last owner must have been either an op- 
pressed, or an indolent man. The roof has 
entirely fallen in — the rank grass and the foul 
weeds riot in our garden ! — Of all the flowers and 



MY EARLY DAYS. 147 

fruit-trees, there remain but a few scattered 
- daisies, and some barren bushes of the goose- 
berry. Well ! time that ruins can also restore. 
■My sister has two blooming boys, and I shall 
teach them to plant, where I have planted, 
and they shall live, where I have lived. The 
[chapel must be restored, and the school-house. 
(I shall seek out some one that resembles my 
own old master, to instruct the village children. 
[Fort-Maurice too shall not be neglected. I 
j will attend to its improvement like a faithful 
^steward, holding it in trust for the sons of my 
(dear Mary. They have a father and a mother 
such as I had. They shall learn to know their 
.value, and obey them better than I did mine. 
[I'll read them every day a lesson, from the 
|scenes of my errors and my misfortunes. 

My time on earth will be but short — I feel 
;, and I know it. It appears to me wonder- 
ful that I have weathered it so well. My years 
;tnight have been longer in the land, had I 
(honoured my parents as I ought to have done. 
They would most certainly have been much 

{lappier. I have got sufficient warning to set 
ny house in order — let me be watchful that 
the last hour may not have the most to do. 
To those who follow after me, and who may 
perchance profit by my experience, I have to 
say, with the sincerity of one that must soon 
renounce this world — that J never yet had a 



148 MY EARLY DAYS. 

happy moment, when I was not obedient to the 
I laws of God, and that I can attribute the suf- 
ferings of my whole existence, to no other 
caube, than the few, but fatal follies, of my 
Early Days* 



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